


Times of Need

by Chatnoir89



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 5 + 1, 5 Times, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, F/M, Gen, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Oblivious d'Artagnan, Protective Constance, Protective Musketeers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-15 10:18:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 76,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2225352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chatnoir89/pseuds/Chatnoir89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 times someone protected an oblivious d'Artagnan and one time he protected them.  </p><p>5+1 style done in one shots.</p><p>1. Porthos ~ 'in which Porthos is a momma bear'<br/>2. Constance ~ 'in which Constance wears the pants'<br/>3. Aramis ~ 'in which Aramis learns what it is to be a big brother'<br/>4. Tréville ~ 'in which Tréville encounters old enemies and unexpected allies'<br/>5. Athos ~ 'in which Athos does not play well with others'<br/>+ 1 d'Artagnan ~ ' in which d'Artagnan learns the dangers in keeping secrets'<br/>+ 2 d'Artagnan (Athos' POV)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Porthos

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for any mistakes, this is unbetad, if anyone would like to beta some of my work that would be awesome :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Porthos is a Momma bear

 

The boy was a terrible card player. Possibly the worst he had ever seen and that was a great deal coming from a man who frequently twisted the game in his fortune through deviant means. Porthos had played – and won – his fair share of card games over the years and could say with great confidence that d’Artagnan was one of the worst.

Porthos had learnt of the lad’s lacking card skills the very first night in the tavern. Now, it should be said that d’Artagnan’s skills were not completely absent; the lad knew the rules, the aim and what he needed to do, _technically_ he was a rather decent card player. However, his brashness and youthful excitable nature were as easily read as if he had simply held out his cards and shown the entire table. Though Porthos had been tempted that first night, he knew better than to scam the grieving young Gascon, there was no honour in taking what little the lad had. He may have also played down his own skills rather substantially in order to give d’Artagnan something to boost his confidence.

What had seemed like a kind gesture at the time, was now coming back to bite him as d’Artagnan’s inflated ego gave him the courage to challenge a few men in the tavern to a game.

“I am holding you personally responsible for any ill happenings that ensue.” Athos sent a sluggish glare across the table as he took the liberty of refilling his glass.

“What did I do?” Porthos shot defensively at the man who was slowly – or rather, not so slowly – drinking himself into a stupor.

“You introduced him to the _bloody_ game…” Athos slurred slightly with a dulled aggressive tone, informing the others that it would not be long before he would have to call it a night.  “And you are also the one who gave him the notion that he was a master at the game when truly he is barely a novice…”

“He’s a big boy, he can handle himself.” Porthos countered with an offended sniff, though his words convinced none at the table.

“He plays cards like he holds his sword,” Aramis muttered with a concerned expression, brows knitting, his gaze never leaving the table across the room where d’Artagnan sat surrounded by excited tavern patrons.

“That’s not entirely a bad thing,” Porthos argued, pondering upon the sharp skill and intellect it took to master both swordplay and cards, not to mention the pure instincts required. 

“Only when he believes the others share that same sense of honour.” Athos muttered into his glass before emptying its contents. His eyes closed as he slipped into the euphoria of the drink. With his head tilted back slightly, he visibly informed the others that he was done with the conversation at hand and wished to seek the far more pleasant company of his liquid mistress. 

“I can tell from over here that he has a good hand,” Aramis chuckled, watching as d’Artagnan failed to conceal the look of glee behind his eyes, “though I can also see that his opponent has several cards in his back pockets.”

There was a sudden roar of thunderous applause as the table across the room erupted with cheers of excitement and victory.

“My mistake, looks like he’s winning,” Aramis grinned wickedly, looking surprisingly pleased for the young Gascon’s triumph. Taking up his glass, Aramis went to clink it upon Porthos’ own glass in celebration, however the other man did not wish to join him, pulling his drink away bitterly.

“They’re gonna to bleed him dry…” Porthos sighed, to which Aramis raised a curious brow, concern clear in his expression.

“The one with the crooked nose just put a drink in the lad’s hand,” Porthos pointed out a tall, pale gentleman looming over d’Artagnan, one hand upon the boy’s shoulder, encouraging the Gascon to play another round. “They’re buttering him up to take a heavy blow…”

“How can you tell?”

“It’s an old trick, from the Court,” Porthos growled, defensive of his shaded past,  “ply him with drink, rob him blind and make him think it was his own doing.”

“You cannot fight all his battles for him, Porthos,” Aramis sighed, combing his unruly hair out of his face with one hand.

“Doesn’t mean I leave him to the lions neither,” Porthos grumbled to himself, taking a sip from his glass, as his eyes flittered over to the far table once more. Apparently, d’Artagnan had been convinced to play _one last round_ , though whether there would be multiple ‘last rounds’, remained to be seen.

“He is doing well under our instruction,” Aramis countered. “Tréville was only just commenting the other day on his progress…”

“He’s still a boy from Gascony, trying to make his way in Paris,” Porthos informed the other man quietly, noting the slumbered position Athos had chosen to curl himself into, “there are some things in this world that can’t be learnt from a tutor’s instruction.”

Though d’Artagnan had spent the last few months in amongst all that Paris had to offer, his naivety upon what lurked in the shadows was still alarming. Having grown up in the roughest areas of the city, Porthos knew first hand that d’Artagnan’s honour-bound; heart-upon-his-sleeve attitude could be easily manipulated and preyed upon by those who wished him harm.

Paris was no place for farm boy ideals.

And yet, even though Porthos knew this, he still cherished the innocence. He relished in having a younger brother to mentor and protect. It was refreshing to have someone among them who had not been so bitterly broken by the weight of the world. The wide-eyed awe upon entering the finer rooms of the palace, the cheerful smile at the suggestion of a mission beyond the city gates, the way the young Gascon looked up at the three of them as not only mentors and friends, but as the great heroes of Greek Epics, as the mightiest gladiators within the Colosseum, as figures of myth and legend beyond mortal constraints. _That_ was in itself flattering as well as incredibly daunting. For believing them to be unbreakable, immortal heroes of legend would surely end in disaster. Porthos knew the day would come that one of them would not walk back through the garrison’s gates. He dreaded the thought himself, but had no idea how d’Artagnan would cope.

True enough, the death of his father had stricken a heavy blow to the young lad, but still he was not nearly as sour at the world as the others had to grown to become. The stench of the city had not yet claimed this soul. 

“Depends on the tutor,” Aramis shrugged, interrupting Porthos’ thoughts, giving the other man a knowing look.

Porthos hummed in response but chose to give no verbal answer.

“I think he’s had enough,” Aramis announced tiredly, carefully prying the empty bottle from Athos’ tight grip. The man had slumped across the table; head resting heavily upon the wood in a way that could not possibly be comfortable and would surely result in a painful crick come morning. 

Though the root of Athos’ nightmares had been dealt with, the scar of his emotional wound still pained him on occasion and his alcoholic crutch was still very much a part of his ritual.

The larger musketeer watched with veiled curiosity as Aramis skilfully manoeuvred an easily malleable Athos from his stool into a standing position, one arm slung round the other man. By now both he and Aramis were well acquainted with the delicate procedure of removing the intoxicated musketeer from taverns in the early hours, though it had never struck Porthos, until that moment, how easily they had turned these actions into a practiced art.

“I might stay for a bit,” Porthos scrapped his stool back to settle himself into a more comfortable position, making it clear he was in for the long haul.

“Not that you’re worried,” Aramis nodded, allowing the other man to see the smirk hidden beneath his shadowed features.

“Why would I be worried?” Porthos sent Aramis a mocking frown, “I simply wish to enjoy a moment of peace away from the rest of you. 

“Of course.” Aramis agreed lightly with an exaggerated nod, playing along with the linguistic game they loved to share.

“And if the lad gets into any trouble, I shall simply stand back and let him handle it.”

 “No other way for it,” Aramis shrugged simply, though this was made difficult by the drunken musketeer in his arms, “he is his own man, needs to learn from his mistakes, fight his own battles.”

“Too right.” Porthos nodded, saluting Aramis with his glass before finishing the last drops left within.

After a moment’s pause, Aramis dropped the pretence of the conversation and sent an earnest look towards his friend. To this Porthos returned a deep meaningful nod, exchanging the promise to protect the young lad as Aramis silently agreed to do so with Athos.  

“Well then, shall we say eight for breakfast?" 

“I’ll bring the bread,” Porthos agreed, his smile brightening at the thought of Madame Ponté’s freshly baked baguettes. That woman baked the finest bread in all of Paris. She also seemed to harbour quite the infatuation with musketeers – she claimed it was the uniform. Though she was far beyond even Tréville in years, Porthos enjoyed the platonic flirtatious repertoire as if often resulted in a pain au raisinor brioche free of charge.   

“Right, good night, then,” Aramis announced, jostling Athos’ sleepy figure in order to gain a better grip, “do not let that young rascal steal away the rest of your evening.”  

“I’ll drag ‘im out by his ear after the next game,” Porthos promised with a gentle smile, watching Aramis take the Athos’ weight on his shoulders and half-carry, half-drag, him out of the tavern.

Leaning back in his chair, Porthos poured himself another glass, finishing the bottle. There wasn’t any harm in letting it continue for a little while longer. The night may be waning but there were still a fair few before the sun rose and the lad seemed to be having a wonderful time, even though he was unaware of the plot being played above his head.

“You’re looking mighty lonely this evening monsieur,” a sultry voice wafted into his ears. Tearing his gaze away from the young Gascon’s never-ending card game, Porthos looked up to see an auburn-haired seductress before him. She was fair and soft and everything his night needed.  

“I saw your friends leave just before and wondered if you might prefer my company instead?” She asked, though clearly she required no answer as she sat down at the table before Porthos could reply.

“How could I say no?” Porthos smiled with a slight glint in his eyes as he all but dove into the glorious blue pools of her sapphire gaze, watching as they danced beneath the flickering candlelight.

“How indeed,” she replied huskily, her tongue darting across her lips. 

“May I ask as to the name of the beautiful woman who has offered her company?” 

“Gisèle,” she informed him with a low whisper, her eyes sparkled brightly, luring him in with every bat of her long dark eyelashes as she played her role as Siren and he Odysseus’ crew.

“ _Gisèle_ ,” Porthos let his tongue roll over the name, “Porthos, mademoiselle,” he introduced himself with a chivalrous nod.

“How wonderful,” she smiled, trailing her thin fingers along the softer skin upon his forearm, tracing invisible circles upon his wrist.

Somehow, within the space of what seemed like only a moment or two, she had gone from seated opposite him to being situated upon his lap, twisting his curl on her fingertips. It was oddly forward of the woman, but the early hours did distort the mind and blur one’s moral sensibilities.  

“Shall I get us a bottle of wine?” She purred next to his ear, petite fingers wrapping around the drawstrings of his purse.

Ah, there was his cue. He slipped his fingers into his coin purse, feeling around for a small metal piece. Once found he took her hand, placing a few sous, knowing he would never see the change. 

He could tell from the few moments he’d spent in her presence, Gisèle was only interesting in the contents of his coin purse. If she had been paying closer attention to their table that evening, she would have discovered that Athos had done the purchasing of fine wine and meats, where as both Aramis and himself had contributed next to nothing.  

However that seemed rather like a conversation to have with the fair Gisèle once the sun arose. For now, he would enjoy the pleasure of her attractive company and leave other matters for a more sober version of himself to deal with. 

A bottle of wine for his table and a gorgeous woman desperate for his bed, what more could a man ask for?

But first he should see to the lad, send him on his way home. Both Athos and Aramis would have his hide if something were to happen to their young musketeer while he scurried off into the bosom of a tavern girl. He hoped d’Artagnan was steady enough to walk the three streets back to the garrison without any issue. For he highly doubted, fair Gisèle was a lady that could be left waiting…

However, all plans for that evening were quickly shattered as a single glance in the Gascon’s direction had Porthos’ heart plummeting within his chest.

The table was empty.

“D’Artagnan?” Porthos called out as he stood, eyes frantically searching the darkened corners of the ill-lit tavern. Surely the lad would have come back to the table if he were finished with the game?

Thinking back the tavern had seemed quieter during his flirtations with Gisèle, though lost in her beauty and her charm he had not noticed.

“Monsieur,” Gisèle appeared by his side, bottle in hand, “I bought the finest I could –“  

Porthos pushed past her, utterly ignoring her presence as he strode towards the tavern’s owner.

“The men at that table,” Porthos demanded imposingly of the man before him, ignoring the woman completely, “where did they go? _When?_ ”

“They just left, out into the street, I didn’t see where.”

“Did they have a young lad with them?” He growled out his question, teeth gritted as he kicked himself for his lapse in concentration.

“Yes, I – “

Porthos did not stay to hear the end of the barman’s sentence; there was nothing he could say that the musketeer didn’t know. D’Artagnan had fallen for the oldest trick in the Court and Porthos had let him.

Rushing out with barely a moment’s pause to grab his hat and coat, he all but ignored Gisèle’s protests – muttering a quick pardon and promise that she could keep the wine and the coin.

The cold night air bit at his skin as he stalked out into the moonlight streets of Paris. Mud and straw upon the cobbled streets made it difficult to walk without slipping, though a lifetime of practice allowed him to navigate the path with little effort.

“D’Artagnan!” He called out into the darkness, knowing the lad was probably not in a state where he could answer.

A sharp familiar cry rang out in the darkness, drawing Porthos’ attention like a hunting dog catching a deer’s scent. With little more to go on, the musketeer ran through the dark streets like a man possessed, striding forth in the direction of the sound.

It was not but a moment later that he found himself at the mouth of a long alleyway tucked between two taverns that had closed for the night. The alley seemed to be the suppliers’ route, though there was none of the like hiding in the long stretching shadows. Instead he found d’Artagnan, limp and bloodied, held up by the throat as a fist flew across the lad’s jaw, resulting in an eruption of blood to fly with the force of the punch.

Porthos’ gaze grew cold and hard as he pulled his pistol free. The man attacking d’Artagnan had not been the one playing him, but rather the one supplying his drinks, leading Porthos to think that this man had been the ringleader and the smaller fellow simply the distraction in front. From where he stood at the alley’s mouth, he could just make out the smaller man’s quivering form in the heavy shadows, clearly not one with the stomach for the line of work they had found themselves in.

“If you cannot pay with coin, we shall take it from your flesh!” He heard the tall, thin man spit viciously, shaking d’Artagnan’s limp body as if he were a child’s doll. Porthos could not tell in the darkness whether the lad had been beaten unconscious or whether it was simply due to his intoxicated state. Anyway, he intended to find out and seek a swift and merciless vengeance if the former be the case.

“Leave him be or I shall take my recompense from yours.” Porthos snarled lowly as he stepped out of the shadows of the alley, his pistol raised in level with their eyes.

“I will take what I am owed, if I must also take it from you, so be it.” The taller thin fellow sneered through a rotting smile. His yellowing complexion looked sicklier in the moonlight than it had in the tavern. It was only then that Porthos saw the rough knife glinting in the man’s hand.  

“ _Leave him be_ ,” Porthos growled lowly, leading with his pistol as he moved towards the man.

“Take another step and I’ll cut ‘is throat,” the man with the crooked nose spat, bringing up a knife to hover just below d’Artagnan’s jugular.

“Grégoire! Hold your tongue!” The shorter man yelped rushing up to the man, his eyes wide and fearful as he glanced at Porthos then back to his companion.   

“I will not!” Grégoire spat, bone-like fingers grasping d’Artagnan’s hair in a way that would surely have caused him to gasp, if the lad were conscious or sober. “The boy lost, we are owed our winnings, Marcel.”

Porthos held himself tall, bringing his imposing figure to full height as he stared at the men with all the hatred that he possessed. “You move to strike that boy and you will find yourself at the mercy of Musketeers, the Court and the King of France." 

Marcel whimpered audibly, paling visibly even in the shadows of the alley. His rough hands moved to grasp onto Grégoire’s shirt desperately. “Let him go, Grégoire, you must,” Marcel cautiously hovered around the knife at d’Artagnan’s throat, pleading eyes wet with fear, “do you know to whom you speak?”

Grégoire’s twisted expression of malice faulted noticeable as he looked up at Porthos as if seeing him for the first time. Evidently he did not know who was speaking too.

 _This will be interesting_ , Porthos thought as he fought to conceal a smirk. He did not like to present himself as vain man – even though he prided himself on having a number of superficial aesthetic pleasures – hearing of his reputation upon the streets was often beneficial for the ego and if nothing else a rather good story to swap with his brothers. 

“This is _Porthos du Vallon_.” The smaller man breathed the musketeers name as if it were both sacred and fearful. 

“Porthos du Vallon…?” Grégoire gasped, his grip upon d’Artagnan waned, the knife dropped to the ground and released the young Gascon, who fell to he knees, dazed but clearly holding on to a thread of consciousness.

“King’s Musketeer and Prince of the Court.” Marcel nodded deeply as if trying to emulate a bow. 

“Am I prince now?” Porthos smirked though more to himself than anyone else.

“The Queen decreed it so,” Marcel spoke with deep reverence, pushing the other man back away from Porthos.

 _Flea,_ Porthos almost laughed out loud at the thought. After all these years, she was still looking out for him.  Though the title was nothing to those outside the Court, the name struck a deep chord with those within and those who dealt with its people. The streets were less friendly to those without the insurance of the other beggars and liars who shared their alleys. A curse upon the man or woman who angered the Queen of the Court of Miracles.

A mightier curse upon he who threatens one of Porthos du Vallon’s brothers.

“I had no idea,” the crooked nose fellow paled visibly as Porthos’ hands gripped the man’s collar. “I swear to you, I had no idea!”

“Well, I am a merciful man,” Porthos levelled his gaze upon the gutter rats before him, “I will play you to amend my brother’s debt.”

“He is your brother?” Grégoire yelped, his eyes darting to where he’d thrown d’Artagnan upon the muddied ground. 

“Very much so.” Porthos snarled, allowing them to hear the violently protective threat his words formed.

“We accept your most merciful offer,” Marcel nodded, visibly trembling.

“Meet me inside, I wish to see to my brother first.” Porthos instructed, relishing the way the two men scuttled at his orders – it was rather nice to be in charge.

Unfortunately he didn’t appreciate it for long, kneeling down beside the beaten lad, pulling him up into his arms.

“P’thos?” The young Gascon’s voice was barely audible through the bubbling wetness upon his lips, blood and spittle combined in globules. D’Artagnan’s hair was dishevelled and slicked to his head with mud, as were his clothes and boots.

“Hey there little brother,” Porthos whispered, gentle hands cupping the sides of d’Artagnan’s battered and dirtied face, raising it into the light in order to assess the damage done.

A small groan escaped the Gascon’s lips as Porthos pressed his fingers along the lad’s ribs, making sure they were not broken. They were perhaps a little bruised, but not badly. 

“Sh, sh, sh, you’re alright, you’re okay,” Porthos soothed softly, running a gentle had through d’Artagnan’s hair, pacifying the lad as if he were twenty years younger,  “just a few bumps and bruises and a belly full of wine.”

“Mmm,” d’Artagnan moaned, though Porthos could not tell whether it was one of pain or agreement.

 “First rule of cards, lad,” Porthos frowned deeply, thumbing d’Artagnan’s eyelids open, checking the size of his pupils as he lectured the boy, “don’t bet what you don’t have…”

No concussion, that would a good sign. He would not need to drag the lad to Aramis’ quarters. The young Gascon did seem a little out of sorts, but with the amount of wine he had consumed before and during the card game, it was a wonder he was still conscious.

“Second rule to cards,” Porthos chuckled with a low groan as he swung the lad’s arm around his shoulder, lifting him off the mud ridden alley floor with little more than mumbled protest. “Is to always have the best hand at the table.”

“I _did_ ,” d’Artagnan moaned, his head lolling into the crevice between Porthos’ neck and collarbone, allowing the larger man to take his weight as they moved off into the night.

“Which brings me to the _third_ rule,” Porthos told him softy as if he were telling a sleeping child a bedtime story, “know when you’re being played.” 

“W’reegoin’…?”

The lad was as weak as a kitten in this state; it was downright frightening to think of what could have happened if Porthos had left with the others.

“Back to the tavern,” Porthos informed him, “There are some men in there who need to understand the consequences of their schemes…”

“M’kay, onessec,” d’Artagnan mumbled with a heavy slur, pushing himself feebly out of Porthos’ grip. Though the taller man held on to keep him upright, he allowed the younger man to lead him.

“Ugh,” Porthos winced, as the Gascon suddenly doubled over upon the ground, expelling a vile combination of cheap wine, beer and bile violently into the alleyway. Porthos had to jump back so that his shoes were away from the line of fire. 

“S’not your night is it, lad?” Porthos sighed as he wiped a few tears from the younger man’s eyes with his thumb.

“Imissnonsnance…” d’Artagnan pouted like an infant, bottom lip dropped low, large watery brown eyes beseeching the man holding him up, before dropping his head upon Porthos’ chest. 

“You’re _speaking_ nonsense, if that’s what you’re tryin’ t’say…” Porthos muttered gruffly as he moved the both of them back towards the tavern’s doors, a glowing beacon of light in amongst the darkened streets and shadowy corners of the city.

The tavern’s patrons had all but cleared out as they entered. There were a few stragglers here and there but it was clear to see the night was waning substantially. Gisèle had clearly left, taking the wine and coin with her as compensation for wasted time. It was probably for the best, though beautiful she seemed to demand attention and constant care, which was not something Porthos had the time nor finances to do so.

“Some water and cloth for his head, if you could, Madame?” Porthos prompted the barmaid, nodding at the unconscious lad in his arms.

Settling d’Artagnan upon a long bench seat, Porthos sat beside him, resting the lad’s head against his leg. The water was clean, which he was thankful for as he placing the cooling cloth upon the younger man’s face, washing away the blood and grime that the scuffle in the alley had caused.

With d’Artagnan resting in his lap, Porthos turned back to the matter at hand. Namely taking these idiotic, conniving bastards for every sous they had. 

“Gentlemen,” Porthos smiled menacingly, letting the crack of his knuckles echo around them, “I’ll deal, shall I?”

The game did not last nearly as long as it should have, the wiry man across the table visibly quaking in his boots as he lay the cards down. With a heavy heart the crooked-nosed man pushed forth Porthos' winnings - or rather what d'Artagnan had lost, plus a little extra. 

As Grégoire went to leave, Porthos grasped the man's collar pulling him in close so that their noses almost touched. 

“I see you with a deck in your hands again,” Porthos snarled out the threat through clenched teeth, “and I’ll cut yours off.”

 

†††

 

Carrying d’Artagnan back to the garrison had made for a rather awkward task. It was not that the lad was particularly heavy, not he was probably on par, or less, with that of Aramis and Athos – and he had carried the both of them once. No, it was more so that he was simply all limbs, gangly and would not stop moving. Having remained perfectly angelic during the card game, he began to move about the moment Porthos tried to get him home. And all the lad wanted to do was talk. No, not talk, _mumble_. Mumble incessantly about things that could not be deciphered nor understood. Which led to Porthos ignoring the Gascon completely, simply offering ‘ _I see_ ’ and ‘ _mmhmm_ ’ when the lad’s mutterings paused for a moment.

Once tucked in bed, however, d’Artagnan returned to his angelic slumber, quieting his ramblings completely. Porthos sat by the younger man’s bed until the sun began to slither in through the wooden blinds. With a tired sigh, he brushed back the lad’s messy mop of hair, moving it out of his eyes, frowning at the blossoming bruise that streaked across his left temple.

It was moments like these that he truly felt he had gained a little kid brother, one he protected more fiercely than a mother bear would her cub.

 “I know a good lullaby if you need it,” A familiar voice alerted his attention as Porthos’ hand stilled briefly for a moment, feeling as though he were a child caught stealing sweets, he retracted his hand.

Though he could tell the intruder by the mere change in air around him, Porthos send a glance toward the room’s entrance. There Aramis stood leaning against the doorframe of d’Artagnan’s room, his arms crossed with a cheeky grin upon his face. Though he looked tired and clearly hadn’t gone to bed yet, his wickedly playful smirk was still lively and devious, the glint in his eye shining brightly. 

Porthos held his finger up to his lips and shush the other man, quietly standing up to walk out of the room, pulling Aramis with him. With the door closed behind him, Porthos turned to his friend.

“Yours seemed to be the more interesting night…” Aramis whispered, keeping his voice low in hopes not to wake the sleeping lad.

“Trouble follows that kid unlike any I’ve come across.” Porthos sighed, leaning back against the wall.

“I guessing it wasn’t bad, seeing as I did not receive a knock at my door,” Aramis raised a concerned brow.

Porthos smirked a little, _you came to check any way_ , he thought. Though none of them admitted it freely, they were all rather protective of their young musketeer.

“Just needs to sleep it off.” Porthos shook his head.

Aramis nodded simply, content with Porthos’ care of the Gascon lad.

“Sun is just about risen, I’d better get to Madame Ponté’s before all her goods have been bought.” Porthos announced, pushing himself off the wall to make his way to the exit.

To this Aramis all but snorted, “you’d only need ask and that woman would bake you a thousand baguettes free of charge…”

“Only a thousand?” Porthos hummed with a frown, “I must be losing my touch.” He sent a small grin in Aramis’ direction, which was caught and returned.

 

†††

 

Morale around the breakfast table was rather low, due to the fact that half of them were sporting throbbing headaches from a night ill spent and the other half had barely had a moment’s rest.

D’Artagnan still sported a small gash upon his bottom lip and a large bruise upon his left temple. He now lay draped upon the table, head tucked into the crook of his elbow, clearly regretting the level of alcohol consumed and promising himself never to repeat the offense.

Athos had given the lad a once over before turning to Porthos for an explanation, to which he shrugged and shook his head in a way that told him ‘I handled it’.

He accepted Porthos’ response and sat down at the table, tearing off a portion of baguette.

“Have a good night did we?” Aramis chuckled as he nudged the youngest musketeer, who was doing a rather good impression of a pile of rags. 

The only response he got was an unintelligent moan from beneath a mop of hair.

“Do you want some bread?” Aramis tried again, holding out a piece right beside d’Artagnan’s head, hoping the smell would entice him. “It’ll do wonders for your stomach…”

 Again a muted moaned reply growled out underneath limbs and hair.

“Eat something.” Athos muttered curtly, prompting a hand to escape out of the d’Artagnan shaped pile of hair and fabric and grab the bread from Aramis’ hands, pulling in into his constructed cave, the lad’s head never left the comfort of his elbow.

“Oh, d’Artagnan,” Porthos suddenly spoke up as if he had just remembered something, pulling out a small coin purse, placing it upon the breakfast table with an audible jingling clink of coin. “You forgot this last night.”

D’Artagnan raised his head out of his coiled arms and saw what Porthos had placed before him.

“Oh God, thank you!” d’Artagnan’s relief was instantaneous and noticeably heartfelt. The sight of the small coin purse had completely changed the young Gascon’s entire mood, elevating him back to his usual cheery attitude. “I thought I’d been robbed,” he added, pausing slightly as his voice quietened, “that purse belonged to my father…”

“Just keep hold of it this time,” Porthos chuckled, giving the lad an affectionate slap on the shoulder.

“It’s heavier,” d’Artagnan frowned at the taller man, feeling the weight of the purse. 

“What do you know? You’re concussed.” Porthos growled back his response, flicking the lad’s ear, “Aren’t you supposed to be cleaning out the stables this morning?”

“Thanks Porthos,” d’Artagnan ducked his head slightly with a hidden smile, before running off in the direction of the garrison stables.

“He doesn’t remember?” Aramis frowned as he watched the lad dash off.

“Wouldn’t expect him to with the amount of drink he’d had, not to mention the blow to his head.” Porthos shrugged lightly.

In truth, it hadn’t bothered Porthos to learn that d’Artagnan had not remembered the night. He was happy to be able to shield the young Gascon from such things, to feel needed as a protector and a brother. It was rather a nice feeling.

“I hope you warned him off further attempts?” Athos raised a brow in Porthos’ direction as he chewed absently upon a piece of bread.

“Nah,” Porthos laughed with a cheeky grin, adding a wink towards the sour-looking musketeer, “I offered to teach him how to cheat.”

 Aramis snorted into his glass, hiding his smile as Athos rolled his eyes to the Heavens, muttering something about being surrounded by morons.

 


	2. Constance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Constance wears the pants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews and kudos and bookmarks!! This is my first Musketeers fic (after discovering this amazing series three weeks ago!! - yeah… really late to the game…) But it's been a really great response from people so thank you!! 
> 
> I'm going to be tagging things as I go… cause I realised that some of them got a little dark… oops, but not too dark! :) 
> 
> So this is Constance's chapter. I've decided the order is going to go  
> 1\. Porthos  
> 2\. Constance  
> 3\. Aramis  
> 4\. Tréville  
> 5\. Athos  
> 6\. d'Artagnan

 

His fever continued to rise. It was not yet dangerous, but it was frightening nonetheless. There were no wounds to heal, no infection to attend. The man she loved had simply fallen ill and it left her feeling more helpless than she had ever felt before. Hacking coughs and chills plagued the young musketeer and though she was thankful that no blood had past his lips, a small part feared d’Artagnan had contracted a deathly illness.

She had seen others pass in the space of an evening from something so seemingly innocent as a simply head cold.

Although her skills in the medical arts were by no means on par with those of Aramis, she knew enough to be able to care for d’Artagnan in Aramis’ absence.

Captain Tréville and the other three had left some two days previous, taken away from the city to investigate a series of attacks upon passing carriages on the roads leading into Paris. A troop of musketeers had also recently been severely injured on their way back from a half-year posting with the King’s cousin in Nice.

Tréville and the three musketeers had left d’Artagnan behind in hopes that a few days rest would cure the cold that ailed him.

Constance had been given permission to stay in the garrison and tend to the sickly Gascon. With her husband travelling for business, she leapt at the opportunity to be near him. And so she had sat, by d’Artagnan’s bedside, pretending in her mind, that she were his dutiful wife, mopping his brow, spooning him both, never leaving his side.

“Sing to me,” d’Artagnan had asked of her weakly in the early hours one morning. His fever had risen steadily during the night, but was only now starting to cool.

“My singing won’t make you feel better, I’m telling you now,” Constance smiled softly as she placed a fresh wet cloth upon his forehead. “More likely it will cause your ears to bleed and then were would we be?”

“Where’s Athos?”

“He’ll be back soon,” Constance comforted softly with practiced ease, it was the same question each time, though the names were interchangeable; Athos, Aramis, Porthos, his father, each had their part to play in d’Artagnan’s fevered dreams.

“Sleep now,” she told him, brushing away the wet hair clinging to d’Artagnan’s brow.

She had hardly left the room in two days. Only leaving his side to retrieve fresh water and broth. 

Stale air and the depressing site of the darkened gloomy room, had forced her to push the window open wide, even though she was unsure whether this would negative affect d’Artagnan’s state. Her mother had once spoke upon the healing properties of sea air, so perhaps fresh air would be beneficial – not that any would call the city air _fresh_ – but anything was better than suffocating in the dead air of the room.

The past couple days had gone past in a blur of worry and tentative care. It took her a few moments to even realise the sun had set upon the second day. Though d’Artagnan had slept through most of his illness, Constance had barely slept at all. With the others away and the garrison doctor tending to an array of wounded musketeers, Constance was the only one available to provide the Gascon with constant care.

 

“There has been no word from them,” she could hear them muttering in the corridor, just outside d’Artagnan’s door. The creaking of wooden floorboards and the differing vocal tones informed her there were two men who were currently pondering whether or not they should enter the room.

 “It was a simple scouting mission, no reason for them to take this long.” Another spoke, his voice slightly louder than the rest, sounding more authoritative. “D’Artagnan would want to be with those sent to retrieve them.”

Worry and anxiety clawed at her heart as she flickered her gaze down at the fevered man in the bed beside her. The candle offered little light, though it was enough to see d’Artagnan’s pale and gaunt features, the dampness upon his brow. He was in no condition for a rescue mission, no matter how much the others were in danger.

A soft knock rapped upon the door, hesitant but urgent. 

“D’Artagnan?” an unfamiliar musketeer peaked his head through the door, looking nervous. Though his name escaped her, Constance felt she had seen the man's face before. 

“He is resting,” Constance informed them in a clipped tone, her expression making it clear that the man was not welcome.

“I must wake him, Madam,” the musketeer sighed, his voice heavy with regret. 

“Henri?” d’Artagnan’s words were slow from sleep and fever. 

“Captain Tréville and the others have not returned,” Henri spoke softly, imploring d’Artagnan to read between the lines, “they are a day late.”

“What?” D’Artagnan pushed away his covered weakly, attempting to get out of the bed. The sudden movement and surprise triggered a series of painful coughs and wheezes for the sickly Gascon, who tried to hide it best he could. 

“What are you doing?” Constance rushed over to the bed to stop him from exerting himself.

“Where are they?” D’Artagnan welcomed Constance’s touch, though did not allow her to push him back into the bed, simply to sit upon it with his feet upon the floor.

“We are sending a party in search for them, León and a few of his uninjured men, we wished to know if you are well enough to accompany them.” Henri offered, “We thought you would wish to aid their search.”

“I will be ready to leave at dawn,” d’Artagnan nodded stiffly, trying to keep himself sturdy and strong, though Constance could see his strength waning.

“You are to stay in bed!” Constance interrupted with a authoritative tone, a concerned expression on her face, “I have not spend these last few days by your bedside simply to have you waste my efforts by traipsing about the woods looking for lost musketeers!”

“Tell Antoine to have my horse ready,” d’Artagnan informed Henri, ignoring Constance’s protests as if he hadn’t even heard them. As if proving some prideful point to all who bared witness, d’Artagnan stood up to deliver this comment to Henri, even though his legs trembled and he looked as if he were able to fall.

“Of course,” Henri nodded with a nod of acknowledgment, “I shall inform the others.”

With this, Henri exited the room promptly, leaving the two occupants to deal with the aftermath of the news.

“ _D’Artagnan_ ,” Constance scolded him the moment the door was closed.

“I cannot abandon them!” d’Artagnan told her fiercely, struggling to hold himself upright, one hand pressing into his chest as his face wrinkled in pain.

“You are dead on your feet! There are other men going, surely they will find them.” Constance sighed, guiding him back into bed with her persistent hands.  

“They are my brothers, Constance, I need to bring them home.” His voice was almost a whine, like that of a small child or injured animal. It was emotional and raw, causing a swell of fear to rise within her.

What was she to do?

D’Artagnan would run himself the grave if he went out in his condition. But nothing she could say would convince him otherwise. Ever the wilful Gascon, d’Artagnan had a weakness for ignoring his own hurts in the wake of justice and loyalty. He would never abandon the others even if it cost him his life. 

Within moments, d’Artagnan’s energy had subsided greatly and he had fallen back into a weary slumber. His wheezed breaths drew sharply as he struggled to breathe through his congested chest. 

“Sleep,” Constance soothed gently, though the panic inside rose with each minute that passed.

How long until the sun rose? How long until they came to call d'Artagnan out? How long until she was forced to watch him ride out to his death? 

A sharp knock pulled her from her thoughts violently. 

“ _What?_ ” she snapped at the man at the door, before realising it was the doctor. “Forgive me, monsieur,” Constance moaned an ashamed apology, running her hand across her forehead to brush away some hair that had fallen out of place, “the last few days have been taxing.” 

“A sleeping tonic, Madame,” the doctor informed her, placing the glass vile in her hand. “A few drops in water should give him a few hours of peace and help him rest through the night.”

“Thank you,” Constance supplied politely, though her response was automatic, her thoughts never left the man in the bed beside her. She hardly even heard the door close behind her.

 Popping the cork from the the vile, she administered a few drops, as instructed, into a cup of water and aiding a sleep-ridden d’Artagnan in drinking the tonic.

Why did he have to be such a stubborn _idiot_? She let out a growl of annoyance, jamming the cork back into the vile.

Nervously thumbing the bottle with absent fingers, she came across had a desperate thought. 

D'Artagnan could not ride out if he were not awake… One drop extra would not be dangerous for the sickly man, but it would stop him from leaving… 

But he would never forgive her if she did. If she allowed him to remain in bed while the others died in some far of field.

This would have been easier if her brothers were still with her, she could have easily sent Mathieu in d’Artagnan’s place. Though, admittedly even she was better with a sword and pistol, it was better than the risk to d’Artagnan’s health.

A sudden thought was triggered upon looking back at d’Artagnan’s sleeping figure, of a story he had told her once when they had lay in bed together – before her husband had exposed their affair – he had whispered the fable softly as he trailed kisses down the length of her shoulder and arm. The tale of the fair soldier Catalina de Erauso, a Spanish maiden who had escaped to the Spanish continents in the far west. She had dressed as a man and enlisted into the Chilean to fight the wars there, side by side her brother, though even he did not recognise her in disguise. Catalina became such a famous warrior that the Pope himself granted her dispensation to wear men’s clothes.

D’Artagnan had told her this tale to illustrate the strength of women - and, probably closer to the truth, to seduce her into another fumble beneath the sheets. Though he had spoken the account with such wonder and admiration, that it almost sparked a small jealous flame within her.

However at this moment, the idea seemed fitting. 

With no other musketeers to spare and d’Artagnan’s stubborn nature, the ill Gascon would ride out at dawn with the search party.

This was something Constance would not let happen. 

“Doctor!” She called out, rushing through the ill lit corridor in search of the medic, finding him at the foot of the staircase, thankful for his old age as it meant he had not gone far.

“What can I do for you Madame?”

“I must return home in the morning and wondered if it possible for you to tend d’Artagnan in my absence.” Constance asked courteously, “I may be able to return by the evening, but I would be most appreciative of your care.”

“My dear, it is my duty to care for those in this garrison,” the doctor returned curtly, though there was a hint of subtle charm and humour in his tone. “I thank you for your help whilst I was occupied, but it is not trouble of mine to continue the work I was commissioned.”  

“Thank you, monsieur,” Constance breathed, relieved that the first stage in her plan had been successful.

Though this was the easiest stage, it allowed her to move forward and motivated her to see the rest of it through.

 

†††

 

 

The hours passed with a paradox of seemingly slow moment juxtaposed with the all too fast passage of time. A quick scout of the courtyard saw Constance in possession of a large leather hat, and though it proved too large for her head, it concealed her hair and shadowed her face.

“’Nonstance,” d’Artagnan mumbled through fevered breaths, a hoarse cough erupting from his throat, his voice barely a whisper. “I ne’d t’go, deyneedme,”

“Hush now,” she whispered softly, handing him the tainted water with a nervous flutter in her heart. “Drink this.”

With soothing utterings and the effect of the tonic, Constance lulled him back to sleep, carding her fingers through his hair.

As the bells rang out across the still night, she knew it to be time. There was not a moment to waste upon the futility of her plan and a single glance at the man in the bed renewed her courage and determination to see it through.

A series of bandages around her chest secured her breasts in tight. It was not the first time she was thankful for a lightly smaller chest than other woman. Her mother often told her this would change when she had children of her own, but for now it suited her fine.

Being taller in the legs and body, d’Artagnan’s pants looked rather terrible on her, it was clear these had not been made for her. They were far too long, tight at the hips and loose upon her waist. His shirt billowed around her like sails upon a tall ship, though thankfully his leather doublet fit her wonderfully, if a little too big for her.

An odd feeling came over her as she caught a glimpse at the pauldron upon her shoulder – the sigil of a musketeer. Another life perhaps, had she been born a man, become a soldier – not that she had even wanted to be a man, she loved being a woman and once she became a mother she would love it all the more. It just would’ve been nice to have that freedom for once, to do as she pleased, to be able to fight for what she believed in, for what she loved, just as a man would do.

Strapping d’Artagnan’s sword and dagger across her waist, she felt the added guilt of her farce.

A quick glance at herself in the reflection of the glass window made her frown. It was not very convincing. Anyone that knew d’Artagnan would be able to tell immediately that she was not the young Gascon musketeer.

“D’Artagnan!” A heavy pounding came from the locked door, causing Constance to jump a little in surprise.  “We must be on the road!”

“Be out in a moment,” Constance lowered her voice in a dreadful attempt to mimic d’Artagnan’s voice. Wincing at her awful imitation she bit her lip, allowing once last look at the man she loved before placing a soft kiss upon his fevered forehead. A happy moan from d’Artagnan at her touch gave her the courage to stand and place the large hat upon her head, tucking in the strands of loose hair underneath.  

Consciously emulating the gait and slouch of the other men, Constance walked into the garrison courtyard, where a troop of four other musketeers on horseback stood ready to depart.

The sun had not yet risen, though the low light of dawn was eagerly upon them. Darkness was her friend in this scenario, providing deep shadows for her to slip through.

With her hat shadowing the entirety of her face, she gave a little smile of confidence; so far she had not been discovered.

“I see you’ve finally found yourself a hat,” Serge chuckled affectionately as he walked past with a large pot of stew. Constance simply ducked her head in acknowledgement and moved quickly over to d’Artagnan’s horse, which thankfully had already been saddled by the stable boys. Not that she couldn’t have done it herself, but rather she would have no idea which was d’Artagnan’s saddle or reins, which would have resulted in her giving that game away before it had even started.

She pulled herself up upon d’Artagnan’s raven gelding, spurring the horse on to follow the others in front, sparing a moment to glance up at d’Artagnan’s window. She hoped he would forgive her.

 

†††

 

There was something wickedly delightful in deception. The adrenalin bubbling under her skin, her heart beating furiously in her chest – she had never felt so alive!

As the scouting party of musketeers had been away when d’Artagnan had joined the garrison, they had never really been introduced to the Gascon boy. They were initially curious, but soon dropped their questioning as all they got in return were shrugs and mumbled grunts from the woman in disguise. Constance had opted to limit her conversation with the men, knowing that this was something that could easily give away her farce.

“We’ll find them lad, we’ll bring ‘em home.” one spoke softly as they rode, leaning over to pat her shoulder forcefully – almost enough to push her out of the saddle, though she recovered quickly.

A small flicker of confidence rose within her as she saw the beauty in her plan not to converse with the others – they simply saw her behaviour of that of a melancholy soldier, worried for his missing friends.

The wooden road around them held an eerie silence that was neither pleasant nor comforting. Birds did not sing and the wind fell dead. A chilling shiver ran down her spine as she looked around under the deep brim of her oversized hat. The unfamiliar musketeers accompanying her had fallen silent as well, which did nothing to assuage her growing fears – something was not right.

A small crack of a broken stick snapped her head in to the dense mass of trees. Her fingers gripping the reins of d’Artagnan’s horse tightly.

“Ambush!” the leader of the musketeer troop roared back to his men as he swung his horse around. 

A small flood of armed vagabonds streamed out of the trees like ants from their nest, coming at the musketeers from both sides of the road.

Sliding free of her saddle she ran for the trees, desperate for the protection and advantage of the woods. Her heart pumping wildly, she suddenly felt the fear cripple her in the chaos. 

Balls flew from all directions as the sound gunpowder almost deafened her.  The roar of the musketeers around her and that of the bandits came back in muffled waves. 

But even with the fear in her heart and mind she knew that she could not run. D'Artagnan would not run from this fight and nor would she.

Lining a bandit in her gaze, she pulled d'Artagnan's pistol free and aimed it toward him. 

Aim.

Fire.

The force of the ball through the pistol did not surprise her as it once had, for now it was familiar act. 

 

“Damn,” she cursed as the shot went wide, missing her target completely. Though the tree beside him looked a little worse for wear. Her mind desperately ran through d'Artagnan's teachings on how to load and fire the pistol. She felt desperately for d'Artagnan's powder flask, calming her nerves she still her shaking hands. 

 

Powder. 

Ball.

Wad. 

Arms loose.

 _Breathe_.

‘ _Don’t snatch at the trigger’_ d’Artagnan’s calming voice danced over her reverie as she took another bandit in her sights.

Fire.

 

The ball flew true and struck the man’s left shoulder, just above his heart, propelling him back and into a heap upon the ground.

“Good shot, lad!” One of the men cheered brightly, causing a warm feeling to burst upon her chest.

The bandit lay dead, disposed with a simple pull of her trigger. It was frightening and sickening to think she had ended a man’s life, though at the same time, that man had held a pistol readying to fire upon one of her fellow scouting party – surely then that gave her the right.

The last time she had killed a man, d’Artagnan had been there to sooth her as he slid the pistol from her trembling hands, but he was not there now. Though still fighting for d'Artagnan, she knew this time she was alone in her fight. 

 

With the bandits closing in, the time for pistols was behind her. Rapier drawn, Constance prepared herself for close combat.

Sword held out before her in the way d’Artagnan had dutifully taught her, she circled the vagabond, readying herself for the attack. Moving with a blade was by far easier without the added weight of her skirts and corset. Her arms felt more free and agile, d’Artagnan’s rapier a deadly extension of her arm, slicing and parrying dangerously.    

The bandit was impatiently and struck first – a careless mistake – allowing Constance to block and thwart his advances, disarming him in the exact fashion d’Artagnan had tutored her in.

His sword fell to the ground as another musketeer appeared behind him, delivering the bandit a deadly blow in his lower side.

“Well done, lad,” the brunette musketeer beamed at her, swelling her chest with pride and confidence.

So this is what it truly felt like to be a musketeer? The winds whipping around her bare neck and face as she ran through the chaos. Defending the land for King and Country.

It was glorious!

With a triumph burst of excitement in her chest, Constance thrust the blade forward, embedding its tip deep within another bandit’s side, felling him with a single blow.

Finding a moment to catch her breath, Constance looked around at the chaos around her. The invading bandits were not match for the expertise of the King Musketeers and they had made little work of the savage men.

A wave of relief washed over her as she stowed d’Artagnan’s gun carefully in the belt around her waist and sheathed her sword. Though the other musketeers had not yet stowed their weapons, she believed it safe now that the bandits had been taken care of.

However, with all the excitement of the battle, Constance had failed to notice the sound of horses draw near.

“Arquette, please tell me you lot haven’t taken all the fun!”

 _Oh no_ , Constance bit her lip and her heart froze as she heard the familiar voice as a trio of men on horseback stilled their pace coming closer to the scouting party. Her mind reeled desperately for an excuse to scurry away into the trees. The moment they saw her, they would know of her deception. 

“Three days with nothing but dull countryside and you boys rob us of the only bit of action!” Aramis sighed with a dramatic flare.

“Downright rude, that is.” Porthos agreed gruffly.

“So you lots _are_ alive,” Arquette laughed at the trio joining them. “Now I owe Henri three livre…”

Constance fought to remain at the back of the group, silently hauling herself up into the saddle of d’Artagnan’s gelding, praying desperately to not be seen by the three musketeers. If she kept quiet and out of sight perhaps they would not notice the familiar pauldron upon her shoulder or her pistol on her hip, perhaps she could still keep up her deception.

“Captain’s horse drew lame,” Porthos sniffed as the three spurred their horses up beside the others. “He and the others rode to the next village over to acquire him another, we were sent back to keep you boys in order in his stead.”

“Well, alls well then aye? And we brought your little Gascon along for the ride,” Arquette chuckled, pointing over to Constance upon d’Artagnan’s gelding, before adding, “Quiet lad ain’t he? Though not half bad with a pistol and sword…”

“Indeed,” Athos drawled out as he looked over towards Constance, watching her with a cold stare.

With a racing heart, Constance ducked down low in her saddle. Athos had spotted her – that much was sure. But had the others noticed? Perhaps Athos would keep quiet and simply let this pass.

“Well I for one am in need of a bottle and a bed,” Arquette laughed, causing a chorus of nods, agreeing heartily. 

As the others got up into their saddles and began to walk out, Constance became all too aware that Athos’ gaze was heavily upon her, though it was not until too late that she realised he wasn’t the only one. 

“Do you know something, _d’Artagnan_?” Aramis said in a low voice as rode up beside Constance casually, matching d’Artagnan’s horse for stride and step. “Put a woman in trousers, and miraculously she still looks like a woman…”

Suddenly Porthos’ horse flanked her other side, trapping her between the two suspicious musketeers. “Yeah I’ve heard that too,” the larger man nodded thoughtfully, “they say the same about _hats_.”

“Do they now?” Aramis looked over at Porthos with an exaggerated expression of interest.

Constance groaned, ducking her head low so that the large hat she’d procured, hid a greater amount of her face. The game was over, her subterfuge revealed, she only hoped they had the decency to wait until they were no longer in the company of the other musketeers to berate her for her crimes.

“León,” Athos called forth an unfamiliar musketeer with flowing blonde curls, causing the man to pull his horse around to meet Athos’ – this blonde man had been the leader of the company she had stowed away with. “Take the others and ride to Paris, we shall be along soon.”

“Can I inquire as to why?” León answered with a curious tone.

“It is a personal matter, one which I shall inform the Captain of later.”

“Say no more,” León nodded with deep respect, as his horse “I must say though, your young lad is quite skilled, is he not? I had heard of his talent, but to see it in action is another matter.”

“ _Truly_ ,” Athos replied in a low drawl, his teeth clenched with a tight jaw as his gaze trailed back towards the woman in disguise. “ _D’Artagnan_ ,” he said loftily, though Constance could see the cold anger that hid beneath the surface. “A word if you please.”

Constance and the trio of musketeers stilled their horses as the others rode off down the road.

There was a moment of tense silence as they waited for the others to get a fair distance away.

“ _Get off the horse_ ,” Athos’ voice was cold, as he swung his leg over his saddle, sliding out onto the ground effortlessly. His tone revealed the deep anger that lay beneath. He was angry, no, not angry – _furious_.

“What the _hell_ are you doing out here?” he growled as he tore the hat from her head, allowing her dark red curls to billow around her shoulders.

“D’Artagnan’s sick,” she answered in a guilt-ridden mutter as means of explaination.

“So you left him in seek of _suicide_?” Athos roared thunderously, throwing the hat to the ground as he began pacing frantically before the woman dressed in d’Artagnan’s clothes.

Aramis and Porthos had dismounted quickly and stood nearby, concerned for the anger their friend displayed.

“He would’ve killed himself if he’d gone on this mission.” Constance attempted to explain, though the intimidation of Athos’ piercing stare was enough to waver her confidence.  

“And what would he have done if you had been killed in his place?” Athos growled fiercely, pointing a sharp finger in her face. “For him to wake only to find your body slain under his name! _What then_?” 

Constance shook slightly in fear of the man before her. For many years she had known the musketeer, but never had she felt the force of his anger upon her. 

“You not only foolishly risked your own life but you also risked the lives of the men beside you, they believed a competent soldier had their backs, not some silly woman playing _musketeer_!” He roared down at the frightened woman. 

“Athos!” Aramis stepped forward, placing a sturdy hand against the furious musketeer’s chest, physically placing himself between Constance and Athos. “Calm yourself, she only thought of protecting the boy.” 

With a slight shove, Aramis pushed Athos back, starring the other man down in ways of silent warning.

Athos let out a growl as began to pace at a distance, in hopes to assuage his anger. 

“Are you alright Madame?” Aramis turned back to the woman, gently approaching her in words and actions.

“I’m fine,” she uttered under her breath, which was barely heard. In truth she was furious and tired and embarrassed and sore. The adrenaline from the battle was leaving her body, with nothing but the stress and strain of the past few days remaining. 

“Blood,” Aramis noted, delicately reaching out at the bloodied tear upon Constance’s stolen shirt.

“It’s not mine,” she reassured him. 

“Then I daresay you owe our lovely Gascon a new shirt…” he teased, hoping to make her smile, though Constance did not feel it in herself at that moment.  

She hated feeling like this after everything she had done. For the briefest of moments during the battle she had felt powerful, like some great heroine of legend, like them mighty Joan of Arc slaying the English in the name of God and France, just like the Catalina de Erauso from d’Artagnan’s story. 

How was it that she now felt like she was a silly little girl again, nervous under the dismissive and dispassionate gaze of her father?

It made her furious to think they could tear that glory away so suddenly and treat her like some insolent child. 

“You are very lucky those musketeers are unfamiliar with d’Artagnan, Madame,” Aramis noted softly, though his words simply caused more fury to bubble under Constance’s skin, “impersonating a soldier is a grave offense, particularly by a woman.” 

“With a bad-tempered judge, they could see you in the Châtelet for this, maybe even executed…” Porthos told her gravely, his brows knitted in worry and concern. 

“I was protecting d’Artagnan, the same as any of you would!” Constance cried back, in defence of her actions, her anger rising dangerously as well as her pride. “Why should I not have the right to fight, purely because I am a woman?” 

“Do you _any_ idea what it would have done to d’Artagnan had you been killed?” Athos chose that moment to return to the conversation, though his temper did not seem improved. 

“Athos,” Aramis sighed heavily, however the elder musketeer ignored him.

“A mere word from you can lighten his spirit or crush his soul,” Athos growled, finger pointing at Constance accusingly. “What do you think would happen if you were killed for his sake?” 

“And you do not think his affect upon me the very same?” Constance kept her gaze strong and unblinking as she looked at the furious musketeer, she would not be threatened by his anger. She had done what she felt right, damn the laws at hand. “You think my love any less simply because it is a woman’s love?”

This caused Athos’ jaw to clench, as if he were holding back words. Seeing an opportunity, Constance continued, her fiery gaze locked up the furious musketeer. 

“I have forfeited my reputation for the love I give d’Artagnan and I have scarified my freedom and happiness in hopes that I could save him from those who would do him harm. So do not think for a moment that I would think twice about sacrificing my life for his. I would gladly die if that meant he could live. I know you think me some naïve young housewife with no knowledge of the world and you may be right, but I know love, and I know when it’s worth fighting for it.” Tears of anger and frustration had begun to well in her eyes, though she ignored the fact.

“And I know I have hurt him with my marriage, but I cannot change my past actions. I wish to God that I had know d’Artagnan first… but Jacques will never let me go and I will not put d’Artagnan through the heartache of another ill-fated affair but…

“I love him.” She confessed softly, having lost the momentum of her roaring anger.

The three men before her stood in silence for sometime, listening only to the leaves rustle in the trees, the horses shift impatiently and the heavy breathes of the calming heroine before them.

“Forgive me for my outburst Madame,” Athos sighed wearily, taking off his hat to thread in fingers through dishevelled locks. “What I said was unchivalrous and of bad form. Though you must understand the risks you took this day without thought of consequence.”

“I’m not sorry that I did it,” Constance snapped, though her tone calmed as she added, “but I’m sorry for the risks against the musketeers with me…”

“Are you hurt?” Athos asked earnestly, his brow creasing with concern as his eyes trailed over her muddied and dishevelled appearance.

“No, I’m fine,” she replied, sounding a little guilty.

“I am sorry for my temper.” He apologised once more, making Constance conscious of his regretful tone and stance.

“S’alright,” Constance uttered meekly, grateful for the apology, though still unsure whether she completely forgave him. Her anger had subsided rather substantially after her outburst and at present was feeling rather self-conscious about the entire event. “In hindsight it probably wasn’t the greatest of ideas, it’s not even a very good disguise.” She smiled timidly, wrinkling her nose as she gestured to her stolen clothes. 

“No, it really isn’t…” Porthos chuckled honestly, shaking his head.

“Spotted you from a mile back,” Aramis smiled cattishly, thumbs tucked into his belt with a slight air of polished arrogance.

“Though that doesn’t say much about León and his men…” Porthos added, dipping his head slightly towards Aramis.

“Best not say anything,” Aramis replied in a dramatic whisper, winking at Constance as he did so, relishing the small smile she graced him with this time. “Wouldn’t want to dishonour their pristine reputations…”

“Promise me you shall never again willingly place yourself in these circumstances.” Athos cut through their jests with a serious tone.

“I cannot,” Constance informed him, though she did not wish to start another argument with the man, she held her ground. “I will never stand aside if I feel I can protect him.”

Athos sighed as if acknowledging the fact that this was not an argument he would win.

“Then please, at least _think_ before you do something this idiotic again,” Athos told her with a touch of exasperation, “and if possible seek out one of us first.”

“I could probably manage that,” Constance smiled timidly, fiddling with the bloodied hem of d’Artagnan’s shirt.

“Good, now put that hat back on,” Athos told her, picking the large hat off the ground and dusting it a little before placing it in her hands. “It may be the worst disguise in the history of man, but it’s the only one you have, so it’ll have to do.”

Out of instinct, Athos stood beside d’Artagnan’s horse to aid Constance up upon it, though the moment she noticed this act of chivalry she brushed him off. 

“I’ve got this.” Constance quipped hotly, grabbing hold of the gelding’s reins pulling herself effortlessly upon the horse’s back, as if to spite Athos.

Athos hid his smirk from the woman and he returned to his own mount.

“D’Artagnan is a lucky man to have gained the esteem of such as woman,” Aramis chuckled.

“He’d be luckier if she weren’t married…” Porthos snorted, earning a sharp elbow to the ribs and a glare from Aramis. “What?” the larger musketeer asked, rubbing his bruising side, “ _it’s true_.” He added under his breath. 

“Come,” Athos told them with a tired sigh, clearly the last few days had begun to tax his strength. “Paris is still a few hours ride yet,” he informed them as he mounted his horse.

“And d’Artagnan will be in need of his clothes…” he added with a sharp look to Constance.

 

 

†††

 

The ride back to the city was slow and quiet. The musketeers’ horses had been ridden hard for the majority of the day and needed the rest.

Porthos and Aramis rode out front with Constance and Athos some twenty yards back. The leading duo seemed to be involved in some enthusiastic conversation that involved a number of large gestures with their hands, and at one point involving an impromptu stale bread and cheese fight.

Constance had wanted to laugh at the childish display but when she noticed Athos’ blank expression she decided against it and remained silent.

Still feeling nervous around the stoic musketeer, Constance found she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Though Athos did not seem angry anymore and he had apologised for his fury, she still felt an awkward tension between the two of them, as if she were balancing upon a precipice and one word from her would send the man back into his furious rage.

“He taught you well,” Athos murmured, breaking the tension of the silence as their horses walked on with an easy pace, catching Constance in surprise at the calm tone. 

“Who?” Constance tried to keep her expression blank, but a single look from Athos reveal her attempt had failed.

“D’Artagnan has a particular style,” Athos revealed with a subtle smirk, “You emulate it perfectly.” 

“You’re not mad at him?” Constance realised, watching Athos’ amused expression with curiosity.

“No,” Athos sighed heavily, sounding rather like a father musing upon the transgressions of his wayward son. Constance could tell he was a little frustrated with d’Artagnan, but angry was not what the man seemed. “A little annoyed, frankly, though I trust he did was he felt was right.”

Constance considered his reasoning thoughtfully. It was surprising given the furious anger she had been exposed to as a result of her choices. However looking back she knew Athos to be in the right with his temper – not that she’d let him know that, of course. The Musketeers were an elite band of brothers relying heavily upon the trust that the man beside you was prepared to die for you and you for him. It was irresponsible of her to put that trust in jeopardy for d’Artagnan’s sake. But nevertheless, if given the choice again she would repeat her actions without remorse, for that was love. It was selfish and reckless.

And anyway, she had rather impressed those other musketeers in the field today. A small part of her had wanted to pull off her hat and show them that a draper’s wife had fought so expertly – but she knew this must be a secret that must stay between the four of them. 

“I am curious as to why he felt he could not protect you himself…” Athos interrupted her thoughts abruptly. 

Ah, Constance realised, there it was. Astute as ever, Athos had cut to the core of the matter. The musketeer had not cared that d’Artagnan had taught her how to wield a blade and fire a pistol; no Athos cared for the _why_.

“Marsac,” She offered truthfully, gripping her reins tightly in her hands at the mere mention of the horrid man’s name. For so many nights after that day, she had lay awake, wondering – worrying – what would have happened, had things gone differently. 

“He –?” Athos’ eyes grew wide, his lips pursed as her words dawned upon him. Constance had always known Athos to be quick and clever, especially when it came to reading between the lines of subtext in which people spoke.

“No, _no_ , d’Artagnan stopped him.”

“But he _would_ have…”

“Yes.”

Constance’s admission was left to hang in the air as their horses walked along audibly upon the rocky track. Athos’ jaw hand clenched once more, a dark look appearing behind his eyes, which made Constance think that Marsac was lucky to be long in his grave.

“Your parry could use a little work,” Athos finally broke the silence with a curt response.

“Perhaps some tutoring in muskets also,” Aramis noted casually beside her.

Lots in her thoughts before, Constance had not noticed that the other two musketeers had slowed their pace to allow her and Athos to catch up. She wondered for a moment whether Aramis had heard her confession about Marsac, though she could not read his expression.

“And hand to hand combat,” Porthos added thoughtfully, “you never know when it might come in handy.”

Constance blushed in thanks, relishing the feeling of having three older brothers once more.

“Oh and Constance?” Athos look over at her nonchalantly.

“Mm?” She hummed in response, eyes drawn up to the older man curiously.

“You should not wear d’Artagnan’s pants, they are ill fitting on your figure…” Athos added bluntly.

“What – Oi!” Constance snapped at his as she realised what he was saying. She took off her hat, knowing they were the only ones on the road, and lent over to slap the man’s shoulder with its hard leather brim, causing him to laugh unabashedly. 

It would only strike her later, that this was the first time she had seen Athos laugh like this. For the moment, however, she continued to beat the chuckling man with her stolen feather hat, chasing him back down the road to Paris.

 

†††

 

 

The garrison doctor was just leaving d’Artagnan’s room when the four strode in, dirt ridden and weary from the long ride.

“How is he?” Athos was the first to approach the doctor, though his tone was mild, all who knew him could hear the worry apparent.

“Resting,” the elderly doctor informed them with a curt tone, “his fever is down but the congestion in his chest needs rest.” 

Constance almost ran in to the room, to his beside. When she had left this morning, a small part of her feared that it would be that last time she would see him, that he would pass in her absence or that she would be killed on the road.  

 She knelt beside the bed; placing gentle kisses upon his cheeks and forehead, to wake him, which proved effective.

“Mm, don’t kiss me, you’ll get sick,” d’Artagnan chuckled hoarsely, his voice dry and cracked from illness, weak hands clasping her own. 

“If I do, will you promise to sit by my bedside?” She teased, placing another kiss upon his head.

“No,” d’Artagnan replied simply, eyes still closed as he smiled, “I’ll get in the bed though.”

Porthos cleared his throat loudly, making the trio’s presence known.

“Well looks who’s finally awake,” Aramis smirked.

“Hey,” d’Artagnan yawned widely, causing an eruption painful coughs to overwhelm him. Constance placed her hand upon his back to soothe him and he soon quieted, looking far more tired than moments before. 

“You were lost…?” the tired Gascon frowned deeply with great confusion, his eyes drooping low as his mind turn over visibly.

“Go back to sleep, we will be here when you wake,” Athos told the sickly Gascon softly.

“Are you wearing my pants…?” d’Artagnan said slowly with a confused frown, his fevered gaze looking up at Constance.

“No, of course not, don’t be stupid, that’s your fever talking, go back to sleep.” Constance said sharply, ignoring the soft chuckles from the musketeers behind her.

“M’kay…” he agreed placidly, allowing Constance to settle him back into the bed. 

“You should return home,” Athos uttered softly from across the small room, propped up against the far wall, arms crossed. “Your husband is set return soon." 

“Oh, right.” Constance nodded, bundling her dress and undergarments as she stood, “give me a moment and I shall return with his clothes.”

“The next room over is unoccupied,” Athos informed her, “we will watch over d’Artagnan,” he added quietly as Constance left the room.

The room was also an exact copy of d’Artagnan’s, with little more than a bed and small cupboard. Though somehow d’Artagnan’s room had seem more welcoming and warm than the empty room she had walk into, though that could simply be down to the man himself, rather than the room.

Shedding d’Artagnan’s bloodied and dirt cover clothes she folded them with gentle care, though they were in desperate need of a wash they were still his. It took less than moment to redress herself in her usual wear, years of practice aided her speed. And though she longed for a bath to wash away the blood and dirt beneath her nails, she knew that it was something that could wait until she arrived home. 

Taking d’Artagnan’s effects she exited the empty room and returned to the neighbouring chamber. Pausing at the door, Constance took a moment to appreciate the display of affection occurring within. Without a word between them, each musketeer had taken his place at d’Artagnan’s bedside; Athos at the foot of the bed, his eyes never straying from the Gascon, Aramis took a chair beside d’Artagnan, expert hands checking heartbeats and temperature, while Porthos towered over them, leaning back against the wall beside the bed, arms crossed with a pensive expression, with a cup of water ready. Soft whispered conversations were not audible from where she stood, but they held a great deal of care and compassion.

It was rare to find a quiet moment between the four brothers; the life of a musketeer was ever riddled with hardships and travesties, there was such beautiful in coming across scene of peace. 

“Madame,” Athos retrieved her from the comfort of her thoughts, making it very apparent to the woman that he had caught her watching them.

“Hmm?” She blinked dumbly for a moment.

“He will still be here tomorrow if you wish to come by,” Athos told her.

“Oh right, yes,” she shook her head, flustered and embarrassed by her actions. “Tomorrow.”

Each returned a cordial nod, though their attentions were occupied with d’Artagnan. Feeling as though she were intruding upon a private moment, Constance turned and left the room, knowing she was not needed now that d’Artagnan was surrounded by his brothers. 

Alone with her thoughts, Constance headed towards courtyard. She was thankful that the sun had not yet set upon the cool autumn day.

“Constance,” Athos’ voice called out her as she walked through the darkening courtyard.

“I may not have agreed with your actions today,” Athos told her, his eyes ablaze with earnest, “ but do not mistake that for ungratefulness. You have my thanks.” With this, the musketeer took her hand and placed a gentle kiss upon its back.

“You are truly wonderful with a blade and were things different, I would personally sponsor your training.”

“Thank you,” she blushed deeply at the complement, feeling as it his words would stay with her always.

“Goodnight, Madame,” Athos dipped his head softly.

“Monsieur,” she smiled back.

As she left the garrison, she could sworn she heard Porthos’ laugh and say _‘aww look who’s gone all soft!’_

Though she knew if she asked one of them later about it, they’d both deny it.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it, let me know if you did :) 
> 
> Chatnoir xx


	3. Aramis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aramis learns what is means to be a big brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey,
> 
> Thank you so much for all the amazing kudos and reviews!! It's been amazing!
> 
> Sooo this chapter took a long time for a few reasons… one is I'm not entirely sure on how to write Aramis, I don't know why, i think he's super hard to write… Also these some how just keep getting longer haha :) 
> 
>  
> 
> Well I hope you enjoy it!

Aramis had never had the pleasure of siblings. That is, not until he had arrived at the garrison. There he had discovered the greatest family he had ever known. But even then his brothers had always felt older than him: Athos with his wealth of scholarly knowledge and Porthos with his savvy of the streets and wisdom of the inner workings of Paris.

That was until a certain young Gascon had snuggled his way into their small circle of brothers, rather like a kitten, Aramis had once seen, curled up against three hunting dogs – though he was fairly certain the Gascon would not appreciate the comparison.

Unlike his fellow musketeers, Aramis had been a slight apprehensive about the prospect of having a younger brother. Porthos had been the most eager to embrace the young Gascon as a kid brother, he had believed in him from the moment d’Artagnan arrived. And though Athos was reserved, he had known the responsibility of being an older sibling both in blood and bond, so he easily slipped into his role.

But Aramis...?

Aramis was learning on the job.

Sometimes he felt the role of an older brother was rather exhausting. The lad may have been sharp with a sword and clever in a tight spot, but at times d’Artagnan seemed to have to smarts of a week-old filly.

“That bread has mould on it, d’Artagnan…” Aramis had had to point out to the lad one morning as they walked upon horseback down a rocky stretch of road.

“That means _don’t_ eat it!” Aramis had groaned, confused why he would have had to even explain that to the boy.

Aramis had once again had to discourage the Gascon from consuming things that were most likely going to make him sick, when he'd walked into the garrison - “Don’t drink that water, it’s for horses, d’Artagnan.”

And then on one interesting occasion – “ _Prostitute_ , d’Artagnan.”

 

However the present moment called for the young Gascon to be petulantly pacing the length of Tréville’s office, glaring heatedly at the three of them as he prepared himself for the day’s events.

“I don’t see why I must always be the one to betray you…” D’Artagnan muttered peevishly as he buckled his flintlock pistol to his belt.

“It has to be believable,” Athos murmured a stoic reply, leaning back against the wooden door frame to Tréville’s quarters, his hat dipped low masking his features. His eyes flickered towards the heated young Gascon, revealing a glimmer of amusement, before he turned back to the longer corridor he was watching. This expertly concealed glee would have been lost to all those but the three other men in who occupied the room.

Upon receiving this look, D’Artagnan sharped his gaze and lowered his brow to convey his stance on the matter.

Aramis could see the worry deeply hidden upon Athos’ face as he watched the boy fuss. Ever since the disaster of their last deception with Milady, Athos had been extra cautious with allowing d’Artagnan on stealth missions without their protection.

However this mission was unavoidable.

An imminent threat upon the King’s life had been discovered. Rumours had begun to spread around Paris that Édouard Degas, a disgraced ex-musketeer - who had sworn vengeance against the Musketeers – had been forming a society of anti-royalist supporters. Notable figures who could be associated with Huguenot sympathies as well as some members of the King’s court had all been seen entering Degas’ residence to discuss matters that were most certainly concerning a plot against the King. Veiled in heavy secrecy no one knew what was spoken of inside the apartments and no one entered without the strict permission of Degas himself.

Which was were d’Artagnan was to come into it. He was to play the dishonoured musketeer and seek aid from Degas, gain his trust and verify the truth of these rumours – for if they be true then the musketeers could act and quell this rebellion before it even breathed life.

They had planned to publicly discredit d’Artagnan in front of Degas in the same manner in which the ex-musketeer had been shamed, in hopes to play upon his sympathies. It was to be public and unmerciful, though once the mission was complete, they would redeem d’Artagnan’s name most sufficiently.

“Why can’t one of you do it?” He sighed, looking towards the others for support. “You could play the part just the same as I can.”

“Why would we betray each other?” Aramis frowned slightly with a cock of his head, his tone one of mock astonishment.

“Very unchivalrous conduct of a Musketeer,” Porthos added with an impish smirk from where he sat half resting upon the desk of the Captain.

“Besides you’re so good at it,” Aramis gave the boy a smug grin, causing d’Artagnan’s scowl to darken.

“A little too good,” Porthos pushed himself off the desk, towering over the younger man with mock suspicion.

“No more practice, Porthos,” Athos muttered, “we should depart soon, meet at the rally point. D’Artagnan we have already practiced this, Degas is set to arrive in an hour, now I cannot force you to do this and if you do not wish to say the word _right now_ , but the King’s life may be in danger and time is of the essence.”

“ _Fine_ , but this is the last time I do this!” D’Artagnan he pointed a sharp finger at Aramis and Porthos, “you three are ruining my good name!”

“What good name?” Aramis smiled wolfishly at the young Gascon.

D’Artagnan’s only response was a heated glare in the musketeer’s direction.

“Grumpy little one aren’t you?” Porthos smirked, much to the lad’s annoyance.

“I shall meet you in an hour,” d’Artagnan grumbled as he made his way to the door.

“D’Artagnan,” Athos stopped him leaving with an arm stretched out across the doorway. “Don’t get shot this time,” he warned the young Gascon sternly, his brow wrinkling with concern.

“Well don’t shoot me then,” d’Artagnan retorted quickly with a sharp smile, pushing past Athos to make his way through the door. “And, watch the uniform,” he added to Athos with a serious tone, “I’m going to be angry if any of you ruin it.”

“Cheeky little bugger…” Porthos chuckled as they watched d’Artagnan run off down the corridor.

 

†††

 

The days had grown shorter and bitterly cold as the year’s end drew closer. A heavy veil of frost and fog had set upon the city as November’s chill had begun to turn into December’s biting winter. They had all taken to wearing their heavier coats, in hopes the day’s chill would not pierce through.

“God almighty, I would give my left arm for some sun and heat!” Porthos groaned as he pulled his cloak tighter around his chest, shivering into its embrace.

“Never happy, are you… in summer you complain of the heat, in winter the cold.” Aramis chided conversationally as they made their way to the rally position.

“Well why can’t the weather stay at a permanent temped state?” Porthos

“But then you would complain of it being too mild,” Athos cut in with a small smirk.

“Oh very funny,” Porthos grumbled, crossing his arms tight across his chest in hopes of protecting himself against the wind.

“There’s Degas,” Aramis noted softly, dipping his head down to allow his hat to shadow his face.

“I see him,” Athos nodded, diverting his gaze elsewhere so that the ex-musketeer would not realise he was being watched.

“D’Artagnan is in position, ready on your count.” Porthos whispered low as Athos took a cup of wine.

With a sharp and deliberate nod, Athos brought the cup to his lips, though did not drink a single drop.

Aramis hide a smirk as he watched the beginnings of their charade unfold. Athos placed the cup down as d’Artagnan sprang from the busy market crowd, storming up to them in a desperate frenzy.

“Athos, _please_ , let me explain!” d’Artagnan pleaded.

“How dare you show your face here!” Athos roared as he grabbed the younger man by the collar of his doublet. “You are no a man of honour nor are you musketeer!”

“I didn’t –“ d’Artagnan tried once more, but Athos cut him off.

“You do not deserve the honour of wearing this,” Athos snarled ferociously as he grabbed hold of the insignia upon d’Artagnan’s shoulder, which d’Artagnan had unlatched in preparation – not wanting any harm to come to his precious uniform during the scrap.

“No!” d’Artagnan cried out as though wounded.

Though this was all an act, Aramis knew the pained look of shame and defeat upon d’Artagnan’s face, as Athos tore the young Gascon’s prized leather pauldron from his shoulder, was real.

D’Artagnan had worked so hard for his commission and to lose that, even in a fictional scenario such as this, was devastating for the boy.

 _Wait_ , why was Porthos looking at him like that?

Oh, it was his line.

Aramis forced his eyes to darken with distain as he pushed his young comrade to the muddied ground.

“You disgust me,” Aramis readied a globule of spittle in his mouth to spit at the Gascon, only to find that most of it ended up upon his own beared chin rather than the boy before him.

In the briefest of moments, they both held the other in their gaze. Aramis was sure that d’Artagnan was about to break character and laugh at him, which in turn would have caused Aramis to laugh as well. As it was, Aramis was biting his lip painfully to stop himself from smirking.

Thankfully, Athos had seen the amusement in both their eyes and adlibbed, quickly pushing Aramis away from d’Artagnan forcefully, enough to make them refocus their efforts.

Now was not the time to laugh about such things, tomorrow they could laugh.

“What is going on here?” A fellow guardsman wondered, as he stepped forward, out of the crowds. This man was under Captain des Essarts’ command if the recognisable crest upon his shoulder was anything to go by.

With Degas watching from the shadows, they could not afford to let slip of their charade, though he hated tainting d’Artagnan’s name and honour in front of other guardsmen.

“D’Artagnan has betrayed us all,” Aramis snarled menacingly, watching Porthos and Athos taking on his parts without missing a beat, “he is a traitor to the Musketeers.”

“Then we shall aid you in being rid of this coward!” Another stepped forward with his sword unsheathed, this one Aramis recognised as François – a young guard who had recently been commissioned into des Essarts’ company. A little brash and unexperienced, the boy often reminded Aramis of their own little Gascon.

François has clear aspirations of become a musketeer, though will little skill and a hot temper, he had fallen into the ranks of the general guard. Even still he worshiped Tréville’s musketeers like the holiest of heroes and hung upon their every word as if they were his commanding officers. 

“This is our business here, gentleman, I bid you leave us to it.” Aramis informed them delicately, not wishing the overconfident young guards to come anywhere near the scene they had so carefully planned out.

“As you wish, sir,” François nodded reverently. Were this any other time, Aramis would have delighted in the worship of a young recruit, though at this moment he had other more pressing duties to perform. 

“Get out of here!” Aramis turned to see Porthos throw d'Artagnan across the street, thankful that the Gascon had landed correctly so that he would not injure himself. And with that cue, it was his turn to enter once more. 

“If I ever see you in Paris again I shall kill you myself!” Aramis roared murderously, rather glad he had procured a bottle for after this performance as all this yelling was making his voice hoarse.

D’Artagnan took his cue perfectly and scurried off down the bustling streets. A quick glance to his left informed Aramis that Degas had fled in the boy’s direction as anticipated.

 

†††

 

It was an entire day later that the trio stood stoic before the Captain’s desk. They had come rather accustomed to this familiar setting. The three of them had been called in to the office so many times over the years – some good, some bad. However there was now something missing as they stood in the room. Something had they had not cognitively recognised until it was no longer there.

D’Artagnan’s presence had been absent for all those years before he had arrived at the garrison and it had never felt lacking. But now as they stood before the Captain, they could all feel it, the absence of a brother.

“D’Artagnan’s still in hiding with Degas, I take it?” Tréville pressed quietly, once the door to his office had been closed.

“If he knows what’s good for him,” Athos muttered darkly.

“The entire garrison hates him,” Aramis added with a regretful tone, “they think he’s betrayed them all.”

“Well that simply means you all performed your roles perfectly,” Tréville noted proudly.

“ _Some_ of us…” Porthos jeered with a snarky tone as he sent Aramis a mock reproachful look.

“It was funny, d’Artagnan was about to laugh also,” Aramis protested with a wolfish smirk

“Which would have put him and the mission at great risk,” Athos growled lowly in disapproval.

“He’ll be alright, Athos,” Aramis sighed, sensing the tension growing in the other man, his worry consuming him. “He’s done this before –”

“And look how they turned out!” Athos bit back, allowing his frustration to come to the surface.

“Degas is not Vadim, nor is he Milady de Winter,” Aramis reasoned diplomatically, “even if d’Artagnan is discovered, Degas would not harm him.”

“You are the only one here who knew him as a musketeer,” Athos turned to Tréville for answers. “What would he do to d’Artagnan were he to be revealed as a musketeer spy?”

“All men change in the face of adversity, I cannot be sure which path Degas has chosen for himself.”

“But he wouldn’t hurt him,” Porthos urged for verbal confirmation from their Captain.

“I cannot be certain of anything.” Tréville told them honestly, never one to lie or mollycoddle in hopes of easing fears. “But that is not why I have called you here. I hate to delay d’Artagnan’s return any longer, though I feel my hands tied in this situation.” Tréville’s tone was heavy with regret.

“The Cardinal has learnt of the Queen’s missives to Spain, I need you three to ride out to Dourdan and greet the messenger before the Cardinal gains access to the letter.”

Though curious, Aramis decided to take his own advice for once and remain completely uninvolved with the entire matter. What he did not know could not bite him in the arse later.

“One of us should stay in case d’Artagnan makes contact…” Athos insisted, clearly hinting that he should be the one to stay and watch over the young Gascon, “he has been with Degas for a day now, he should have something to tell us soon.”

“I need you on this assignment, Athos,” Tréville countered with an urgent tone, sounding tired and rather old, which was rather uncharacteristic of their valiant Captain. “The Queen’s correspondent is the Count-Duke of Olivares, a favourite disciple of King Phillip IV and minister of Spain. He is powerful, yes, but also an open aristocrat and elitist, his messengers will only accept a musketeer of noble blood and title to carry his missive.”

Porthos grumbled slightly, cracking his knuckles audibly in response to the unintentional slight about his common past.

“That does not stop you going, only from carrying the message,” Athos explained tactfully, sounding rather as if he were encouraging Porthos to come along just so they could annoy the Count-Duke’s messenger on account of _technicalities_.

Porthos sniffed petulantly and looked as if he were about to continue pouting, but then his expression changed. “I’ll come then,” he quickly accepted without another word, causing the others to give him an odd look, as the larger musketeer usually avoided dealing with discriminatory gentry. Sensing their confusion, Porthos added with a begrudging mutter, “I might also be trying to avoid a certain Madame Duvier…”

“She becomes infatuated so easily…” Aramis sighed with mocked sympathy, patting his friend’s shoulder for support. For Madame Duvier was a well known adulterer, falling for each and every kind word and pretty smile – a romantic in her own eyes – though she was also notoriously flippant, becoming bored and apathetic as quickly as she had fallen.

“Few days out of the city might allow things to cool over,” Porthos shrugged casually were talking about a stray cat that had followed him home, “even if it is to deal with some smug bastard.”

“Then it is settled, the Count-Duke’s messenger is set to be travelling by the South road through Le March. He was set to arrive in Dourdan yesterday.” Tréville deposited a small sealed envelope into Athos’ hand, “I suggest you leave immediately, the Cardinal may have already sent his men.”

“We shall see it done,” Athos tilted his head ever so slightly in respect and recognition, placing his hat upon his head as he moved to exit the Captain’s office, the others quickly following his lead.

“I guess that leaves me to watch over our youngest,” Aramis concluded as they walked the length of the balcony towards the staircase.

Athos sent a lazy look of concern towards Aramis, brow raised slightly as he silently conveyed his thoughts, as he began to descend the stairs.

“I promise it will not end as it did last time.” Aramis raised his hands in partial surrender towards the sour musketeer. All those present knew exactly what Aramis was referring to, though they had sworn under oath never to speak of it again.

“Besides, it’s not as if I was the one bet the boy’s life in a card game…”

“Oi! Traitor!” Porthos growled with a playful shove, pushing the other man into the wooden railing of the stairs, “well you’re the one who forgot about him in brothel, only to remember the next day!”

“ _Porthos_!” Aramis gapped, his eyes wide as his mouth dropped, “you swore!”

But Porthos simply shrugged, apparently all's fair in love and dodding on your friends...

“Gentlemen...”Athos’ slow drawl was a touch louder than usual, his tone oozing authority as his words halted the two musketeers on the bottom few steps instantly.

“We must ride out immediately,” he informed the larger musketeer before him, “Though perhaps on the way you can explain all you’ve both been neglecting to tell me…”

 

†††

 

It always amazing Aramis how often he would wish for tranquillity and how quickly he would grow bored of that peace once he obtained it. This is why he knew deep in his heart he would never take the cloth.

It had begun as a wonderfully relaxing morning; enjoying his breakfast without having to compete with the rabble and constant argument between Porthos and d’Artagnan over the last piece of bread nor with having to listen to the irritable moans of Athos as the musketeer came to grips with the idea of a brand new day. However, as he sat at the quiet table, alone, Aramis quickly began to realise these were the things he loved about his mornings. Without the squabble for bread, the table felt dead, as if it all the life had been sucked from the wood. Without Athos’ petulant grumbles, there was no one to tease and laugh at as the grumpy man barked at the feuding man-children.

By the good Lord he was so utterly bored. With barely a soul at the garrison there was no one to spar or compete against nor was there anyone to hold a conversation with. The Captain was at the Palace and though Aramis had wished to go along as well, he had been given the duty of waiting upon a response from the young Gascon lad.

With weapons cleaned and sharped until a state of near impossible condition, Aramis found himself in the utterly horrid state of complete boredom. Sighing, he turned to throwing his dagger across the courtyard into a wooden pillar repetitively as well as firing his pistol just so that he could clean it once more.

After barely ten minutes of this consuming dullness, Aramis readily welcomed the sight of a familiar young woman appearing in the archway of the garrison, though it took a moment for him to place her as the Bonacieux’s housemaid.

He watched her for a few moments as she nervously peered around the imposing barracks as if in desperate search of something.

Being the gentleman he was, he decided to quickly put her out of her misery, “may I help you, Mademoiselle?”

“Are you Monsieur Athos?”

“Can’t say that I am, though if you have news regarding d’Artagnan, I have been entrusted to hear it.”

To this the young woman before him bit her lip nervously; visibly reluctant to hand over any information to someone that was not Athos.

“I am Aramis of the King’s Musketeers, as you can plainly see,” he gestured at the garrison around him and the crest upon his pauldron, “I am a dear friend of both d’Artagnan and Athos, surely you have seen me in Monsieur d’Artagnan’s company at the Bonacieux residence?”

“I, uh, yes, your face does seem familiar and the monsieur did also mention a Monsieur Aramis and a Monsieur Porthos which I should trust with this message also.”

“Well, I am glad he decided to remember me,” Aramis smiled widely though he had begun to grow a little frustrated with the Bonacieux’s housemaid. “Does make things a little easier.” He added in jest, though the maid was so timid she did not understand.

“He says to meet him here this evening at nine and that he has news.” She relayed the message slowly as if she were making sure that each piece of information was completely correct.

“Did he say what type of news?” Aramis ventured, perhaps he should seek out the boy and aid him. Two days with a word had begun to play upon his nerves and worries.

“No, though he did seem to laugh at little when he told me his message,” she noted, with a slightly confused expression.

“So he was well and unharmed?” Aramis pushed for any news that he had been successful and that he had not been mistreated in any way.

“I do believe so,” the maid nodded earnestly, her eyes wide with truthful conviction.

“Thank you for delivering the message, it had eased my thoughts, tell d’Artagnan I shall be here.”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan has already departed the Bonacieux’s residence, though he assured me he would be here, regardless of the reply.”

“Very well, good day, mademoiselle.”

“Good day Monsieur,” she curtsied with deep respect before hurrying away.

Notre Dame’s bells tolled for the hour as the Bonacieux’s housemaid left the garrison.

Nine in the evening, that left…

He listened closely the final toll with a heavy heart.

Twelves hours to himself…

Lord save him from this ongoing torture.

 

†††

 

D’Artagnan was late.

Well, technically it was Aramis that had been the late one. But d’Artagnan had not been at the garrison once Aramis had arrived, late yes – but only by five minutes or so.

Aramis had finally grew too bored to sit and wait in the garrison, so he had opted to spend a few hours in the arms of Madame Dedeux down the road. Hoping to drown out the buzzing of his head against the silence. To be honest he was reluctant to spend his time in this way, as his heart felt as though it belonged to Anne and their child – though he knew this could never be so. But in the end his boredom grew too great, the beating of his heart against his chest and the drum against his head was too loud to tune out. So Aramis had escaped into the Madame’s bed and became so utterly and blissfully lost in her embrace.

Unfortunately, this lapse in judgment and weak-will was to be interrupted by a resonating tolling of bells, at the strike of nine.

“Christ, by all that is above!” Aramis swore as he berated himself furiously, knocking his head forcefully against the pillow before him.

“My thoughts exactly,” Sabin Dedeux exhaled contently with a wide smile.

“I apologise profusely for my abrupt exit but I am afraid I must depart,” Aramis informed the woman with practiced reluctance, pretending to dally though he fastened his buckles with a rapid pace.

“Shall I see you again?”

“When our stars align once more,” Aramis cupped her hands in his own, kissing them tenderly before he snatched his hat from the bed. They both knew the pretence of this exchange, neither one truly cared for the other in the way in which they needed, but the warmth and comfort had been sufficient for an hour or two.

With no further words, Aramis had fled the woman’s apartments, rushing forth down the street toward the garrison, only to find that his rushed actions had apparently not been needed as d’Artagnan was nowhere in sight.

“Saw him sulking about before,” Serge shrugged nonchalantly when Aramis inquired after the young Gascon. “Must’ve got bored and went to look for you.”

“Did you see which way he went?”

Serge had simply shrugged in answer to this question, though Aramis took off nonetheless, his head filled with anxious questions.

Had Degas followed d’Artagnan and learned the truth? Was that why the boy had fled the safety of the garrison? Had he been taken?

God, it was all his fault. Had he not sought Madame Dedeux’s company, Aramis would have been waiting for him at the garrison.

“Where are you?” Aramis muttered aloud as his sharp eyes scoured the darkened streets for any sign of the young musketeer.

It was then he noticed the commotion at the end of the street. Three shadowy figures could be made out in the darkness. They were furious calling out undistinguishable taunts and jeers at an unseen target.

Walking further down the street, Aramis could just begin to make out what they were saying. A strange gasping sound could be heard for a moment before violent splashes of water rang through the street.

“You don’t deserve a man’s death,” Aramis heard a man growl, “ _peasant scum_.”

“Those men were your brothers!” Another roared – François, from des Essarts’ guard, Aramis recognised – as water splashed one more. “They are the greatest this city has every known and you dare to dishonour them?”

What he came to witness as he walked closer, stilled his heart.

A group of three uniformed guardsmen stood huddled over a horse trough; two men holding a fourth man in place as another shadowed over, fingers tightly gripped to the victim’s hair, holding him under the water, mercilessly.

The limbs of the drowning man thrashed violently as he struggled to break free, desperately fighting a losing battle for air.

“You are a traitor and a coward!” One man spat upon the flailing victim, bringing his knee up into the drowning man’s ribs, causing their victim to jolt against the blow and fall limp in their hold.

“What in God’s name are you three doing?” Aramis called out to the youthful guardsmen in horror. Surely Captain des Essarts did not encourage torture of criminals, especially not upon the streets of Paris for all to bare witness to such an act?

“Aramis!” François yelped in surprise, releasing the victim’s arm he had held. The other two kept their hold, though the one holding the man’s hair pulled the limp victim’s head out of frigid water trough.

As Aramis stepped closer he could finally who is was the three guardsmen had been torturing under the water.

It was as if all rational thought had left his mind as it tried to process the terror that struck him.

“ _D’Artagnan_!” Aramis bellowed as he tore across the street, his heart racing wilding in leaps and bounds, threatening to escape from its bony cage. Hands grasping desperately out as they reached d’Artagnan’s wet and lifeless body, pushing his captors easily aside. Aramis completely ignored all things but the boy in his grasp.

The young Gascon was frightfully pale and icy cold to touch, his clothes were soaked through, dripping, though Aramis did not even notice.

“What have you done…?” The words caught in his throat as his knees gave out, bringing both he and d’Artagnan to the muddied cobblestoned road.

Trembling fingers found their way to the Gascon’s cold throat, pressing gentling as he prayed desperately to God for a sign of life. A heart beat faintly under his fingertips, though what worried Aramis the most was the fact that d’Artagnan was not breathing. With one hurried motion, Aramis placed the young musketeer upon the ground, lying him flat in hopes to ease his breathing. The complete malleability of the boy's body was frightening to behold, he did not struggled nor protest as Aramis moved him about. 

“Breathe, d’Artagnan you must _breathe_!” Aramis beseeched frantically, hands trailing over the Gascon’s body for a wound or cut, something he could mend. 

“D’Artagnan,” he pleaded, taking the paling boy's limp head in his hands, cupping both sides of his face delicately as if he feared d’Artagnan might shatter at his touch.

“Please come back, come back to us.” he begged in a whisper, unshed tears burning in his eyes, distorting his vision.

“Athos and Porthos would never forgive me if you were to die here.” _I would never forgive myself_ , he added mentally, hopelessly brushing away wet hair that clung to d’Artagnan’s forehead with trembling hands.

D’Artagnan’s lips had begun to grow blue and ashen with the lack of air in his lungs.

“Do not do this,” Aramis begged, uncaring of the tears he shed, “do not do this to me.”

D’Artagnan had not had air for at least a minute or more, any longer and he would be in Heaven’s grasp.

“D’ARTAGNAN!” he cried out into the night as he begun to beat his fist down upon the young Gascon’s chest in hopeless desperation, hoping the shock would awaken him.

 _He could not bear to lose another brother to the ice and snow_.

As if by some act of God above, the blow to his chest seemed to push the water from d’Artagnan’s lungs, erupting from the Gascon’s lips as he convulsed to one side and coughed out the water violently, desperate to be rid of the fowl liquid.

“Let it out,” Aramis soothed gently, almost choking upon the relief that washed over him, “That’s it,” he encouraged softly, rubbing d’Artagnan’s back as the young musketeer continued to expel water upon the icy streets in hacking coughs.

“Thank you, thank you,” Aramis murmured repetitively under his breathe like a mantra, taking the gasping young Gascon in his arms, resting his chin atop the boy’s head, allowing d’Artagnan to sink into Aramis’ lap, completely exhausted from the ordeal, sucking in heavy audible breaths desperately, wide brown eyes staring at something unseen.

“Aramis?” A voice said, pulling him from his moment of relief, violently reminding him that d’Artagnan’s assaulters were still beside him.

“ _Leave_.”

“But he betrayed you…?”

“It was an act you _fool_ , a ruse to gain the trust of a supposed threat against the King.” Aramis snarled venomously at the musketeer above him, hating the way d’Artagnan had begun to shiver violently against his chest. They would need to get out of this cold and soon, though at that present moment, Aramis found he had not the strength to move. Relief had crippled him so utterly; he did not wish to move in fear that this was a dream.

“Forgiv – “

“Don’t speak to me,” his voice had grown distant and hollow, a complete distortion of his usually cheerful disposition.

“Aramis,” François stepped forward, reaching his hand towards d’Artagnan’s unresponsive figure.

“Do not touch him!” Aramis growled, low and guttural, like a wounded animal he bared his teeth at the surrounding company, pulling d’Artagnan closer, arms collected around the boy protectively.

“Aramis, we’re sorry, we did not know!” François begged frantically, his eyes wide in fear.

“Be at Carmes-Deschaux at midday,” Aramis’ voice was as ice cold as d’Artagnan’s skin. “You do not deserve the death of a gentleman, but your offense is too personal to see you hang for your crimes.”

“Aramis, _please_ , I do not wish to fi –”

“ _Leave now_ , before I forget our arrangement and shoot you in the street.” Aramis let the threat lie, though in truth he doubted very much whether he could hold a pistol in his current state, much less fire one. His relief burnt through him as well as numbing his body completely. He felt as if he could sit upon this street for hours, holding his fingers tucked beneath d’Artagnan’s chin, simply feeling the beat of the boy’s heart against his fingertips.

He did not realise the three guardsmen have even leave until he saw he sat in an empty street.

A small groan from the man in his lap, sparked his attention instantly as he brushed away d’Artagnan’s wet hair, noticing the young Gascon’s dark brown eyes were wide. Though he doubted the boy was fully coherent, he attempted to look him in the eye all the say.

“Hello there,” Aramis said softly, his voice timid as if he were awakening a young child, “you are very much determined to turn my hair grey much before its time…”

“C-cc-co-old,” d’Artagnan shivered ferociously against Aramis, the frigid night air finally registering in the elder musketeer’s mind and he shivered also.

“Yes well that’s what happened when you have your head in a trough of ice water in November …” Aramis noted absently, feeling oddly detached from the situation at hand.

“Mhmm, sleep.”

“Yes, that does sound like a decent plan,” Aramis concurred, threading d’Artagnan’s arm around his shoulder, allowing the older man to take most the weight as they stood and made their way down the moonlit streets of Paris.

†††

 

Aramis would never remember the walk back to the garrison that night, though not that it truly mattered. All that mattered was d'Artagnan was safe and alive. Having thoroughly checked over the young musketeer and strapping his ribs for good measure, Aramis gave the boy a tonic to ease his sleep and tucked him in his bed, pulling the covers up in order let him rest. 

"Sleep well," Aramis muttered softly, though as he went to leave, he felt something impede his timely exit. 

“Stay,” d’Artagnan groaned, fingers loosely latched onto the folds of Aramis’ shirt, “warm,” he coughed slightly, shivering against himself. 

Aramis debated the offer for a moment, weighing up the physical comfort of sharing a bed made for one over the emotional reassurance of the boy by his side. With a sigh, Aramis pushed back the covers. “Alright, budge over then," he ordered, though he did not expect the Gascon to move at all. 

After a few moments of adjustment, Aramis lay with d'Artagnan tucked against his side, the young Gascon using the elder musketeer's arm as pillow, which Aramis knew would cause it to lose feeling, though he did not have the heart to move. 

“’Mis,” d’Artagnan muttered sleepily as he burrowed himself into Aramis' shoulder. 

“Go to sleep, your body needs it.”

“Degas…”

“Sleep and tell me in the morning.” Aramis grumbled, his body finally feeling the effects of exhaustion, now that he had succumb to it.  

“He’snot plotting a’gnst the King…”

“Truly?” Aramis peered down at the younger musketeer in surprise.

This seemed to make d’Artagnan chuckled a little, though the water in his lungs aggravated his chest and he began to cough violently.

“Hush, hush now, calm your breaths.” Aramis soothed gently, rubbing circles upon the younger man’s lower back. “Shh, that’s it.”

“They’re not,” d’Artagnan tried but his rasping breaths and heavy chest made talking difficult.

“Tell me in the morning, sleep now.”

“They’re lovers,” d’Artagnan said sleepily, tucking his head into Aramis’ shoulder as if it were a lumpy pillow.

“But they are all men…” Aramis was suddenly more awake at the news, confused by d’Artagnan’s reveal.

“H-hence the _secret_ …” d’Artagnan coughed slightly, his body shaking against the force against his chest. 

 _Oh_. It all suddenly clicked together as Aramis’ mind ran through the facts with a fresh perspective. The stories of Degas’ fall from grace and fury upon being cast out were not for his betrayal of the brotherhood, but rather of his love for them.

Aramis was no stranger of the unique attractions of some. And though many saw these acts as an unholy crime, Aramis could not understand how consensual requited love between two souls, no matter the gender, could be wrong?

Degas was simply a man who sought love and Aramis could not condone him for these acts, nor would he betray him to any that would.

“But why then did you not come to us once your knew of this?”

“They were nice,” d’Artagnan muttered sleepily, his eyes closed now as he rested against Aramis, “but had to be sure they weren’t lying…” his voice began to fade away as he stumbled towards sleep.

“And to think we all thought he sought revenge…”

“Degas doesn’t hate musketeers,” d’Artagnan continued in a mumbled slur, “just sad his lover exposed him to his Captain…”

“So it was heartbreak that drove his anger that day,” Aramis mused aloud, though he did not expect the young musketeer to reply. He could hear the gentle snores of the sleeping Gascon and feel the vibrations of his breath. Strangely at that moment, there was no sound more comforting than those of d’Artagnan being alive and whole.  
As Aramis pulled the blanket over both he and d’Artagnan, he realised a parchment envelope was sticking out of the top of the Gascon’s belt that he had no seen before while tending to the boy.

The letter was slightly damp with smudges of inked words, though ultimately it was still legible. As it was addressed to ‘Tréville’s Musketeers’, Aramis saw the right to read its contents.

Degas had been a scholarly sort before joining the ranks and his script reflected thus. Aramis could see the sharp wit in Degas’ words as he read the letter by candlelight, thoroughly amused by the man’s dry humour and word play.

_To my dearest past-brothers,_

_It is wonderful to hear from you all, I am so glad you have decided to get in touch after all these years of silence. I must say, I am flattered by your sudden interest in my social circles and wish you all the best with your marvellous investigations. However, I am truly saddened to say that I cannot aid your endeavour further as, alas, my concentrations lie elsewhere these days, than that of treason and assassination plots._

_Wishing you all the best and with the warmest of regards,_

_Édouard Degas_

_P.S. Feel free to send more of your lovely blue cloaks our way. D’Artagnan is such a nice young man and were he inclined, our doors would be completely open to him._

Aramis snorted at the last line, though he quickly quietened his giggling as he could see d’Artagnan beginning to waken.

Degas sure had a wonderful sense of humour in the face of adversity. It was unfortunate that he had been dismissed long before Aramis had been commission, for the addition of Degas’ dry humour around the garrison was something Aramis could see himself enjoying.

A small cough brought his mind back to the present moment. Unsure of the dangers that potentially lay in wait, Aramis took his pistol and rested it upon his thigh, keeping one eye on the door as he slowly allowed himself to be lulled into slumber by the soothing snores of the young Gascon.

 

†††

 

It was not until the church bells tolled the eleventh hour, that Aramis finally opened his eyes. With the warming comfort of d'Artagnan still by his side, he chose to remain in his position, feeling as though all other responsibilities would have to wait in service of the one currently drooling on his shoulder. Settling his mind back into a peaceful state his closed his eyes once more in hopes to be pulled back into a blissful slumber. 

However, a creak at the doorway had Aramis’ eyes open and sharp in moments, his finger ready at the trigger of his loaded pistol and he aimed it in the direction of the sound.

“Take another step and it shall be your last,” he warned mercilessly before his eyes could even focus upon the room’s intruders. With d’Artagnan still resting softly against his shoulder, he was not taking any chances.

“Aramis?” The familiar voice broke through his reverie, allowing Aramis to comprehend the scene before him and brush away his harried thoughts based upon guttural instinct.

Suddenly, the weapon in his hands grew heavy, as if it were made of dense iron. Relief made his arms weary as his eyes caught sight of his brothers before him. He dropped his pistol sluggishly, thankful that he would not have to deal with some supposed threat.

Athos stood stoic at the door, his expression unrecognisable, though there were elements of concern and confusion present in his eyes.

“Well, this looks cosy,” Porthos noted affectionately as he walked into the room casually, completely ignoring the fact the Aramis had just held a loaded pistol in his direction.

“Is he alright?” Athos wondered as his gaze turned upon the still sleeping Gascon curled up next to Aramis.

“Oh sure,” Aramis drawl in a bitter surly manner, his anger clear, though he did his best to deflect the fury growing in his chest, “if you don’t count the water in his lungs nor the bruises that cover his body.”

“Degas did this?” Porthos frowned in confusion as his mind tried to comprehend the situation.

But Aramis did not feel up to discussing the events of the previous evening, it would only lead to further anguish in his heart and the hearts of his brothers.

“Shouldn’t you debrief Tréville, the Queen will be needing her letter.” Aramis deflected easily, though a single glace to Athos revealed that his attempts were not as masterfully executed as he had thought.

“Porthos, go and inform the Captain of our arrival,” Athos spoke the order gruffly, his eyes never leaving the bed that Aramis and a sleeping d’Artagnan shared.

The larger musketeer groaned in protest, though he pushed himself out of his chair and towards the door nonetheless. It was clear that they had ridden through the night in order to arrive in such a timely fashion.

Aramis expected Athos to sharped his interrogation the moment Porthos left the room, but surprisingly Athos simple stood in the doorway, the very picture of stoic, as if he were negotiating the best way forward.

“Will you trade places with me?” Aramis ventured after Athos politely, gesturing down at the sleeping d’Artagnan across his chest. This caused the other man to raise his brow.

“Somewhere you need to be?” Athos inquired curiously, keeping his tone light and conversational, as trying to entice the truth from Aramis, rather than demand it.

“I have several duels in an hour and wish to prepare,” Aramis explained with a casual tone. "That and the fact that my arm is rather numb…"

“Have you chosen your seconds?” Again Athos’ tone was kept delicate and casual, knowing full well the answer. 

“Do I really have to ask?” Aramis smirked, though his usual playful energy was all but gone, a bitter anguish stood in its place.

“It would be the polite thing to do,” Athos noted calmly, though his furrowed brows revealed the worry he carried for both Aramis and d’Artagnan, “as would an explaination to whom we are to duel.”

There it was: Athos’ ultimatum: _I will have you back, but you must be truthful with me_. Athos abhorred deception it all it’s forms. His history with the cruel Milady de Winter only strengthened the musketeer’s need for transparency amongst his brothers.

“Three of des Essart’s guardsmen,” Aramis revealed with a heavy sigh.

“That is both illegal and reckless,” Athos uttered with a low drawl, disapproval clear. “I thought there was a mutual respect between the Musketeers and des Essarts’ guards.”

“Apparently not when they believed d’Artagnan’s betrayal.”

“I see…” Athos uttered, though his words indicated that he was still slightly confused upon the matter and wished for further information.

“They tried to kill him, Athos,” Aramis’ voice had gone ice cold, “they sought murder.” All pretence of civility was lost as his mind was transported back into the horrors of the previous evening.

“Two held him, while another forced his head under a trough of ice water and kept it under.” Aramis revealed in a haunted whisper, his mind replaying the events of the previous evening. “When I came upon them, I thought him dead, he – he _looked_ dead…”

“Why are the not in irons?” Athos spoke softly, though his tone foreshadowed a fearsome fury, deathly calm before a storm. “And why are you giving them the honour of a duel rather than the shame of the rope?”

“Because if justice is to be done, then I wish to see it through myself.” Aramis' volume climbed as his angry consumed him, leaving his words sounding like the menacing growl of a wild animal. 

“'Aramis?” d’Artagnan’s sleep addled mumbles interrupted their fury.

“Hush now, go back to sleep,” Aramis soothed softly, patting his hair to lull the boy back to sleep, which proved rather effective. 

“An hour you say? That would be midday?” Athos asked casually, his tone quieter so as not to wake d'Artagnan a second time.

“Indeed.”

"Bit more notice would've been nice," Porthos chimed in from the doorway, alerting them of his presence. 

"It's more time than you've ever given me," Aramis rebutted with ease, relishing the feeling of the easy comaraderie between them.  

"True," Porthos nodded, "but look who I found in the courtyard,” he chuckled as he revealed a worried looking Madame Bonacieux from behind him.

As Constance had been given no further information, other than what Aramis guessed d'Artagnan had explained the previous afternoon at her lodgings, she was anxious and confused at the sight of the young Gascon protectively cuddled by the musketeer. And this was most definitely his cue to exit. 

He beamed widely, restoring his mask of flippancy and effortlessness charm as he caught sight of the woman in the doorway, “Ah, Madame, care to trade with me?”

 

†††

 

They stalked the streets in silence as they made their way through the snow-covered avenue of tall evergreens. With d’Artagnan swaddled in the warm embrace of Madame Bonacieux, Aramis could now focus on the satisfaction he desired.

Though François had claimed the incident was a misinterpretation of the facts, that they had seen d’Artagnan as a traitor to the Musketeers, a coward and betrayer of their sacred brotherhood, that did not excuse the torturous acts they committed after the fact.

No guardsman of the King had the right to perform such cruelty upon one of their own, especially without the direct order of their superiors.

War and delicate situations sometimes called for undesirable methods, but not in times of peace, not upon your brothers in arms.

That was unforgivable.

 

“I assume you have a plan in all this?” Athos asked as they spied the three guardsmen at the meeting point. 

“Kill one, move on to the next,” Aramis bit back, his eyes never leaving the three men who he craved vengeance from.  

“Well, I’m glad you’ve thought it out,” Athos chided back in response. 

“Please Aramis, we did not know! We thought him a betrayer to the Musketeers!” François stepped forward, leaving the other two guardsmen cowering in the background.

“Draw your swords,” Aramis snarled coldly as he drew his rapier menacingly. “If you win the duel than I shall allow you your freedom, until then…” Aramis sharped his sword against this dagger.

“I do not wish to fight you, Aramis!” François cried, though he drew his sword all the same. 

“Well you should’ve thought of that before you tried to murder d’Artagnan.” Aramis bringing his sword up in salute as Athos stepped forth with a single glove. 

“Stand down!” Tréville's commanding tones rang across the field before anyone had even moved. A single glance towards the yell saw both Tréville and Captain des Essarts thundering towards them on matching raven geldings. 

François instantly sheathed his blade, though Aramis was still looking to carry out the duel, preparing his rapier to seek his justice. 

“For God’s sake, stand down!” Tréville called out again, as their horses closed in upon them.  

“ _Aramis_ ,” Athos growled as he physically placed himself between Aramis and François.

“They would have killed him.” Aramis gaped, looked at Athos as if he had betrayed him. 

“And I share your anger,” Athos gripped Aramis’ doublet tight, forcefully holding him back. “But this is not the way.”

"He's right, Aramis," Porthos agreed, placing a heavy hand upon Aramis' shoulder. 

Though deterred from his revenge, Aramis' anger spurred on beneath the surface. 

“I should have the lot of you thrown in the Châtelet for illegal duelling!” Tréville roared as he slid from his saddle, landing with a heavy thud against the browning snow, stalking towards the musketeers with great ferocity. Captain des Essarts stood back, but it was clear from the way he refused to acknowledge his own men, that there was some tension amongst the King's guards. “Honesty," Tréville sighed, "I would have expected a conflict with the Cardinal’s men, but _this_? Captain des Essarts is my brother-in-law. His men are as much your family as he is mine. And now I hear of three of my most trusted men calling out his own?”

“These cowards attempted to murder d’Artagnan!” Aramis roared at his Captain with a fury rarely unleashed by the usually placid musketeer.

“They are your fellow guardsmen, Aramis, your brothers –“ Tréville tried to reason with the heated musketeer, but Aramis would not be pacified.

“ _They are not my brothers_ ,” he growled lowly, his anger boiling dangerously beneath his skin, heating his words and his temper. “Had I not stumbled across them, d’Artagnan would be dead in the streets.”

“Aramis, Captain des Essart is aware of their crimes and will see to their punishment, but you must see the misunderstanding, they acted out of loyalty and honour for the King and his Musketeers,” Tréville tried to approach Aramis in a diplomatic manner. 

“There was no honour in their actions.”

“This is an unusual case, I grant you, but it is delicate and must be dealt with tact.”

Aramis stared at his Captain for the briefest of moments, reminded of that awful feeling of doubt he had felt during the discovery of the Savoy massacre. But with Porthos' hand still firm upon his shoulder and Athos by his side, he knew the proper course to run, no matter how his heated blood wished for vengeance. Tréville was his Captain and as a soldier, it was his duty to follow his Captain and trust that his judgments were the right ones. 

" _Very well_ ," Aramis nodded, his tone revealed he had completely given in to the Captain's demands, though he sheathed his sword nonetheless. 

“I cannot thank you eno – “ François stepped forward, the very picture of angelic grace and humility. 

“If you are smart, _boy_ ,” Tréville growled with an uncharacteristic coldness, “you will leave this city and never walk its streets again.”

Des Essarts’ men did not offer another word to the subject, quickly dashing from the clearly as fast as they could manage in the heavy blanket of melting snow, with their Captain following close behind. 

It was then that Tréville slumped his shoulders in defeat, placing a heavy hand upon Aramis’ shoulder, looking up at the musketeer wearily. “I thank you for your civility this day, Aramis, a true musketeer knows the power in stowing his sword.”

“Their crimes must be answered for,” Aramis locked his gaze upon his Captain. “Their misunderstanding does not exonerate their treatment of d’Artagnan.”

“Captain des Essart and I will see that justice is done, trust me on this,” Tréville promised reverently, “as your Captain, I swear this to you.”

“That is all I ask.”

“Is d’Artagnan alright?”

“A lot better than he could be,” Aramis replied honestly, the boy was probably waking up in the arms of Madame Bonacieux, so he was no doubt wonderful given what could have been.

“Good, you all may be reprieved from your duties for the day, though I expect you in the courtyard at eight o’clock tomorrow.” The Captain told them gruffly and as if feeling he had no more to say, Tréville extended a firm nod to his musketeers, before turning sharply back toward his horse.

“Oh, Sir?” Aramis called out, suddenly remembered the conversation between he and a sleepy d’Artagnan in the early hours of that morning. His anger towards the three guardsmen has no completely dissolved – especially as a large part of him felt he had not received enough satisfaction on d’Artagnan’s behalf – though with Tréville’s promise of justice, he felt he could perhaps begin to push that anger down, to mask his fury. With François and the two other guardsmen taken from his sight, it was easier to pretend the previous night had not happened, easier to forget the panic he felt rising within him or the ongoing _what ifs_ that bombarded his conscious.

Yes, perhaps for the moment he could keep his mask in place.

“You may rest easy, there is no threat against the King,” Aramis revealed with an almost wolfish smile as his mind turned over Degas’ written words.

“D’Artagnan took care of it?” Tréville turned back in curiosity.

“Apparently not,” Aramis grinned a little at the side of his mouth, knowingly, “it seems we misjudged Degas, he is not a revolutionary, _well_ not in the traditional sense…”

“How do you mean?” Tréville furrowed his brow.

“Degas’ secret society of radical gentry is not a collection of like minds, but rather of similar inclinations… _in bed_.”

“They are…?” Athos frowned, instantly catching on to Aramis’ ill-conceived attempts at being delicate.

“Indeed.” Aramis nodded simply.

“And we…?” Athos winced, clearly realising the situation they had pushed their youngest into, knowing that d’Artagnan would not let this one go for a very long time.

“Well that changes things slightly,” Porthos snorted, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Yes, apparently they were _very eager_ to have d’Artagnan join their cause…” Aramis gave a little knowing smirk towards the others. 

“Oh, good Lord,” Athos sighed, dropping his head into his palm.

“Degas even extended a personal invitation toward all musketeers who wish to attend his revolutionary gatherings…” Aramis revealed nonchalantly, “I think he misses the uniform.”

“Please tell me no one else knows of this cock up,” Tréville groaned, removing his hat in order to card tense fingers through his thin grey hair.

“None but d’Artagnan, Degas and those who stand before you.”

“Keep it that way.” Tréville growled as he stalked off towards his horse muttering incoherently under his breath as he did so.

Aramis chuckled as he watched the Captain leave in frustration, cautious of the chaos of emotions still bubbling dangerously beneath his skin, threatening to consume him if he did not push them down.

So preoccupied in his own thoughts, Aramis his not notice the taller musketeer walk up beside him.

“Come ‘ere,” Porthos muttered, wrapping his hand around the back of Aramis’ neck, pulling the musketeer into towards his chest.

Consumed in the comforting warmth of his best friend’s embrace, Aramis felt the constructs of his mask shatter and fall, releasing an onslaught of raw pain and guilt-driven emotions.

“I’m sorry, I left him, I wasn’t there, I was late.” Aramis rambled frantically, struggling to keep his guilt-ridden thoughts from escaping his mouth.

“From what I heard, you were there just in time,” Athos supplied gently, peeling Aramis from Porthos’ embrace in order to look the other musketeer in the eye.

“But if –“ Aramis cut himself off as he mind reeled with the aftershock of the night’s events, “he was so cold, his lips were blue, I could feel him dying in my arms and _I didn’t know what to do_ , I don’t even know how he –“

“ _Aramis_ , he’s alive, he’s fine,” Athos soothed in a calming tone, patiently waiting for Aramis’ breaths to level out. “You saved his life Aramis, do not let the guilt of what could have been distract you from the truth. Believe me when I say it will only further your grief.”

Aramis nodded his head deeply, allowing his mind to accept the Athos’ words. The wise musketeer had once again spoken true. It was no use dealing in what might have been, it would only drive his guilt to the point of destruction.

“That boy had nine lives, I tell you, knock ‘im down and he’ll pop right back up.” Porthos chuckled, giving Aramis the subtle cue that things were all right, that they were not angry with him nor did they cast any blame upon him.

Too often the three of them had been involved in some incomprehensible horror that would have weakened the very best of men. But the camaraderie and humour between them, kept them sane.

If they could laugh about it, they could get past it.

As if sensing Aramis’ need to take his mind off the trauma of the previous evening, Porthos began to chuckle obnoxiously.

“Just like when those gypsies put him in a lion cage…” he smiled fondly at the memory. “Gotta say that boy is quick.”

“When was this?!” Athos’ eyes widened as he stopped in his tracks looking between Aramis and Porthos in disbelief.

“Ah, do I have a story for you, my friend!” Porthos rubbed his hands together excitedly, making Aramis groan and drop his chin against his chest, “Though you have to swear never to tell d’Artagnan we told you…”

Athos chose to swear his oath through a heated, unblinking glare that did not waver until Porthos began to talk.

“Good enough,” Porthos nodded, putting his arms around Aramis and Athos as they began to make their way back to the garrison. “It all started that week you were assigned to the Queen’s Guard…”

Aramis allowed himself to get lost in the familiar, _slightly_ embellished tale, thankful for the support of his brothers, both physically and emotionally as they walked through the crowded Parisian streets. They had survived another day, and though it would leave scars upon Aramis’ heart that would stand the test of time, he was thankful that they were all safe once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! Hope you liked it! Let me know what you think :) Reviews are always appreciated. Next chapter is Tréville then Athos' chapter


	4. Tréville

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tréville encounters old enemies and unexpected allies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW thankyou to everyone who read, reviewed and left kudos for the previous chapter!!! :) 
> 
> *****MAJOR NOTE******  
> I'm gonna put some trigger warnings on this chapter… Nothing is explicit ( which is why I haven't bumped up the rating - but if you feel that the rating should go up, let me know and I will do so) but this chapter deals with non-con rape scenarios and attempted, referenced and discussed, but not shown. There is also mentions of suicide. I am really sorry if this offends anyone, totally not my plan! 
> 
> Other than that I hope you enjoy this chapter :)

There were few in this world that Tréville deemed unworthy of the air in their lungs. He prided himself upon his levelled temper, his merciful justice and his patience in regards to his fellow man. However, there were those few, the unimaginable cruel and despicable, who he had not the time for, whose actions and presence repelled him so utterly it took all manner of will and strength not to gut them where they stood, regardless of the laws of chivalry.

Men like Claudius de Clermont. 

The inked words that curled meticulously and forebodingly upon the page, stilled the Captain’s heart and made his expression grave; his white knuckled grasp scrunching the parchment in attempt to relieve the anger burning through his body.

With far more power and influence than any other Comte in the towns surrounding Paris, Clermont prided himself on his untouchable status. His coin and love of the hunt provided a close relationship with his Majesty, securing his position among the gentry and by the King’s side.

Though it was rare for Clermont to attend court – preferring an environment in which _he_ reigned over the surrounding peasantry – his visits were often timely and coincidently coincided with a delicate misunderstanding within the Clermont region.

“Comte Claudius de Clermont arrived in Paris this morning,” Tréville announced, his tone revealing nothing of his thoughts on the matter. “He is to join the King on his hunt tomorrow.”

To this the Captain accompanied a weighted look to the three elder gentlemen before him. Though they had not been at the garrison during Clermont’s last visit, they had indeed been privy to some of the disastrous events that followed and no doubt felt it’s aftermath.

“Is that bad…?” d’Artagnan ask slowly, as though he were dipping his toe into icy waters.

Tréville felt a chill upon his skin as he listened to the youthful curiosity of his youngest musketeer. He had almost forgotten the Gascon boy was in the room. Though by now he should have known that calling in three would ensure a fourth.

Some part of him wished to lock the boy away from all this, keep some sense of innocence in tact, if only the smallest part. He had never told d’Artagnan this, for fear of perceived favouritism amongst his men, but the boy’s father had been a dear friend of his back in Gascony. He and Alexandre had grown up together upon the sun-kiss Gascon hills. For years they had been inseparable companions, until the day when Tréville departed for Paris. To hear of Alexandre’s death had been a heavy blow but to have the presence his dear friend’s young son in his regiment was a gift in itself. 

However with this gift he now felt it was his responsibility to protect his friend’s hard-headed young son as the man himself could no longer.

“How long is he to stay?” Athos’ expression was hollow; his tone sharp and chilled like shard of ice. He kept his words civil and professional, not willing to reveal too much on his thoughts on the matter.

“The week, I’m told,” Tréville informed them with a heaviness to his tone. Even

“And is _that_ bad?” d’Artagnan tried again, only to be tuned out once more.

“Be ready to leave at dawn,” Tréville ordered gruffly, dismissing them with a wave of his hand.

“Is there not some –?” Athos began, but was quickly cut off by the Captain’s stiff reply. 

“The King asked for you four personally, to refuse would be the highest of insults to his person.”

“I see.” Athos murmured a barley audible response.

“I’m confused,” d’Artagnan put up his hand to try and gain some attention and answers from the others around him.

“You are all dismissed,” Tréville waved them off once more.

“Wait – “ d’Artagnan spoke up, storming towards the Captain, only to be held back by both Porthos and Aramis’ twin grips upon his shoulders.

“We’re dismissed,” Porthos grunted, pushing the young Gascon out the door, “that means we leave.”

However not all of them left the room as instructed, Athos remained unmoving from his position, staring at the Captain as the other’s exited.

“You seem out of sorts…” Athos began the moment the door was closed.

“I believe you were dismissed,” Tréville sighed as he looked up towards the musketeer, hesitant to acknowledge the man before him, knowing the interrogation that would no doubt unfold.  

“That’s never stop me before,” Athos replied smoothly allowing his words to fill the room with an effortlessly impression. “Clermont’s arrival has you doubting yourself.”

Athos’ statement instantly cut to the Captain’s core, piercing his heart and naming a demon he had not been aware of until then – _doubt_. For this serpent was truly the poison that curled around his mind and heart; he doubted his ability to lead, to protect his men.

“I know you blame yourself for Munier, but his actions were his own.” Athos informed him sternly.

Tréville’s expression cooled substantially, making its icy presence obvious to the musketeer before him.  His fist curled around the inked parchment missive in attempted to relieve him of the ice-cold fire that burnt him to the core.

“It is hard for any of you to understand the outrage I felt at the misconduct that took place during Clermont’s last visit,” Tréville released his confession with a deep sigh of guilt and regret.  

“Munier was naïve and idealistic, his heart was not cut out for the life of a solider, you cannot blame yourself for this.”

“Do not speak of things you do not know, Athos,” Tréville clenched his teeth, though he instantly regretted his anger, Athos was not the source of his rage and it was unfair of Tréville to punish him for it. “I have failed my men on a number of occasions during my time as Captain,” he said slowly, allowing each word to gather the weight of his internalised emotions. “But none have I failed so entirely, as I did that boy…”

 

†††

 

The morning of the hunt turned out to be one of the finest that Spring had to offer. The sun shone brightly upon the dew dropped blades of grass, illuminating the surrounding beds of gloriously coloured flowers, which many a fine poet would have evangelised extensively upon the subject. 

No expense had been sparred for his Majesty’s hunt; tents and feasts had been prepared as had already been set up at their camp position early that morning. Four and twenty musketeers had been summoned in their bright blue coats to accompany the King with his sport, including four which Tréville watch cautiously.

The Cardinal had been his usual self, sauntering up to Captain with veiled amusement.

“When on the hunt with a wolf, it is not considered wise to bring a lamb, Captain,” Richelieu tutted. His eyes drew a direct line to the young d’Artagnan on horseback, laughing unabashedly at something Porthos had just said.

“I do not do so willingly,” Tréville murmured lowly, guilt weighing upon his words as gaze darkened upon the approaching gentry.

Clermont was richly consumed in his own ego, just as Tréville had remembered. Dripping in his over exaggerated self-worth and importance. The Comte wore over embroidered finery of silks, much to fine to wear upon a hunt, though his fashion choices had seem to spur the King to out do his dear friend, for his Majesty’s getup far outweighed that of his usual hunting attire.

With a sigh, Tréville kicked his horse into trot, preying to God almighty he could make it through the week.    

 

†††

 

The hunt had been bountiful, which was appreciated by all as it put the King in a gloriously jovial mood, laughing unabashedly at the rehashing of the morning’s events – the Cardinal had taken a tight corner a little too quickly and had fallen from his horse, though he was not injured, his pride most definitely suffered grievous wounds.

As the musketeers all moved to stand in position surrounding the King’s tent, Tréville saw his opportunity to position anyone that could potentially spark the Comte's interest out of harm's way. The stable boys were young and innocent, so it was an easy task to send them to the river with the horses. That just left d'Artagnan. But how to position him away from Clermont's gaze. 

Feeling no other option, the Captain called over his youngest recruit. 

“D’Artagnan, take the horses,” Tréville ordered in clipped tone, stopping the boy in his tracks. “They must be watered.” 

Though the young musketeer looked as though he was about to question the Captain, Athos stepped forward, taking the boy's shoulder. 

“Don’t argue, just do it.” The stern musketeer muttered as he handed his horse’s reins to the gapping Gascon.

Feeling his task complete, Tréville made his way back toward the Royal tent. 

“There are stable hands right there,” even at a few paces distance, Tréville could hear d’Artagnan’s harsh whispers. “I am here to protect the King, not babysit horses.” 

“You heard the Captain,” Aramis’ quip was light though again easily heard, as was Porthos’ grunt of agreement.

 Just when he thought his plans had been subtly carried out, the shrilled voice of his Majesty thwarted them completely. 

“Ah, d’Artagnan!” The King chirped merrily as his eyes caught a glimpse of the youngest musketeer. “Come, let me introduce you to the Comte de Clermont, Comte, meet my finest new recruit, d’Artagnan.” 

“My lord,” d’Artagnan nodded politely, handing the bundle of reins quickly over to the horse master before aiming a smug satisfactory smirk in Aramis’ direction. 

 Tréville closed his eyes and bit his lip as the rage burnt beneath his skin. His heart almost caught in his throat as he watch the young Gascon sauntered merrily towards the grinning Comte.

With knowledge of the subtext, it was easy to see ever flick of the Comte’s gaze, the subtle smirk and glint in his eyes. It was maddening and sickening all at once.

“Getting them young these days aren’t you, your Majesty?” the Comte chuckled brashly, “The child looks barely off his mother’s teat.”

Tréville watch the young lad with careful consideration. D’Artagnan’s anger was clear and unmasked as he gritted his teeth, though to his credit he said nothing in retaliation, allowing the Comte to tease him. Clearly d’Artagnan had listen to Athos about calming his anger.

“D’Artagnan is one of our finest musketeers,” Louis boasted unashamedly, giving the Comte a sly smile as he bragged upon the topic of his chosen subjects. “A particularly find swordsman, beat a man twice his size, in fact.”

“How wonderful,” Clermont purred, before clapping his hands together, “perhaps we should have a display of the boy’s talents?”

“Forgive me your Majesty,” Tréville interrupted their conversation, thankful of the opportunity to do so as he watch the Comte’s eyes sparkle with interest. “But d’Artagnan has duties to attend to.”

“And isn’t the safest place for the King beside his most aspiring new musketeer?” The Comte laughed strutting up to the young Gascon, slinging a hand over d’Artagnan’s shoulder, running his fingers through the boy’s hair, tussling it affectionately.

Tréville’s teeth grinded audibly as he clenched his jaw, mentally slicing the man’s throat. The very display of this man’s affections was unnerving, particularly as d’Artagnan seemed utterly oblivious to the entire situation. Oh how he wished to take a blade to this man, cut him where he stood. 

“Yes, why not?” Louis frowned, reminding Tréville of the situation at hand. He would be an utter fool to try anything with the King looking on; to strike Clermont was a crime punishable by death. And even though the Captain prided his place by the King’s side, he knew the law would be swift and just should he commit such an act. No, in this moment he could not act with feeling or instinct, this called for meticulous and unfeeling negotiation – the weapon of the gentry.

“Any other time, your Majesty, and I would not say a word,” the Captain bowed low in respect, keeping his tone regretful yet strong, “but as I am in the process of reprimanding our young Gascon here, I do not think the honour of your company would send the right message for his misconduct.”

Tréville avoided d’Artagnan’s confused and hurt expression as he pulled the boy away from Clermont’s grip, it was a cheap ruse, but it was better to be cruel to be kind in these delicate situations.

“Oh surely –“ Clermont scoffed with an accusing glare at the Captain, a silent battle of wits being played through their exchange of expressions.

“As much as I hate to agree with the Captain, your Majesty,” the Cardinal stepped forward, disrupting the stand off, “you cannot let your young guards run amuck only to be rewarded simply because you favour them.”

In the briefest of moments, Tréville allowed his eyes to meet that of the Cardinal’s, offering a small nod in silence thanks for the support shown. Richelieu’s aid in the stale mate tipped the balance easily in Tréville’s favour. It was not often that they found themselves on the same side, striving towards a mutual goal, but when they did, they were an unmovable force.

“Well off you go then,” the King sighed in a patronising manner, as if he were talking to a small naughty child, “but do not let me hear of your misdeeds again, d’Artagnan, I quite appreciate your company and am rather disappointed in your devilish behaviour.”

“Of course, your Majesty,” d’Artagnan nodded deeply, his voice wavered a little, though none by Tréville noticed. “My sincerest apologies, it shall not happen again.”

“I should hope not.” Louis scolded in a harsh tone as Tréville led d’Artagnan away from the tent. 

He hated upsetting the boy like this, shaming him so publically before the King – one who believed the young Gascon could do no wrong – but needs must. 

“There is a stream not half a mile from here, take Mathieu, Thibault and the horses with you, have them watered and brought back promptly.” Tréville ordered gruffly, his eyes still cautious of the way Clermont’s gaze trailed after the young musketeer.

 “Why are you punishing me?” d’Artagnan’s brow creased in confusion, “What have I done wrong?”

 _Nothing, you have done nothing wrong_. Tréville wished to say, though he knew he could not. It was better to keep d’Artagnan in the dark for now. He did not need to know of how dark the world truly was. Let him keep his innocence for a little longer, if just a little while longer. 

“Let me see… questioning your Captain’s orders, disrespecting a superior officer in front of his Majesty, talking back to your superiors, _do you wish me to continue_?”

“What? When have I –?” d’Artagnan cut himself off as if realising he was in the process of doing just what he had been accused of.

“You have been slacking in your responsibilities, it is my duty as Captain to keep you in line.” 

“ _Slacking_? Which respons –?” d’Artagnan could not hold his tongue as his temper flared.

 “If you have any issue with my leadership, d’Artagnan, I hear the Cardinal’s Red Guards are always seeking new recruits.”

This last comment had the young Gascon’s mouth gapping wide in hurt surprise.

“No?” Tréville questioned rhetorically, inwardly regretful of the prideful tears blossoming in the corners of d’Artagnan’s eyes, but his cruelty was not without reason. “Then I suggest you take the horses to the river.”

D’Artagnan slumped his shoulders in defeat, sulking off in search of the stable boys.

“Come along, Mathieu,” d’Artagnan grumbled at the stableboy sourly, as he pulled himself up into the saddle. “Don’t fall behind Thibault.” He called back behind his shoulder as he spurred his horse into a trot. 

“I could use a lad like that around my grounds,” the Comte chuckled in an oily manner as Tréville returned to his Majesty's side, “what a wonderfully spirited young thing. What say you Captain, care to loan the boy out for a few months?”

Tréville saw red as his hand flew to the hilt of his sword, fully content to cut the blaggard to shreds before all who saw, though he quickly found his hand rendered motionless by another’s tight grip.

Athos’ eyes were sharp with concern and confusion; his mouth was a thin line. The musketeer’s hold calmed and centred the Captain instantly, allowing him to see the grievous error he almost made in anger. Tréville gave Athos a reassuring nod to thank him and let him know he had regained his senses. And though Athos released Tréville’s hand, he stuck by his side all the same. 

“I should say not,” Louis shook his head, clearly unaware of the events that had almost taken place. “D’Artagnan is one of the Captain’s finest, his place is in Paris." 

“Ah, more’s the pity then,” Clermont pouted slightly, mockingly as he flicked a small glance towards Tréville, eyeing the Captain’s hand still upon his sword and smiling wickedly as if knowing his power and utterly relishing in the moment.

 

†††

 

The day commenced with an easy fashion. Deer were shot, triumphant gloating was had and they had all survived the day without further incident. As the sun began to sink beneath the trees, they started to make their trek back to the Palace.

With a watchful eye upon the Comte, Tréville made sure d’Artagnan was kept at the back of the precession, among the stable hands and servants. Though the King and his entourage largely ignored this action, it did not go unnoticed by three curious musketeers who fought to catch the Captain’s gaze. However the Captain offered them nothing in ways of explanation. Clermont was his responsibility. 

“There shall be a fête held tomorrow night, in honour of our dear friend the Comte,” the King announced briefly as they walk back, Clermont distracted in conversation with the Cardinal.

“You and your men shall attend of course,” Louis noted absence, as though he were reading aloud a list, “though d’Artagnan should not come, to punish him for his misdemeanours, really strive the message home, don’t you think?” 

“That is wise, your Majesty, a fitting punishment,” Tréville nodded in agreement, though he knew that in any instance his men would cherish the lack of invitation to one of his Majesty’s ostentatious fêtes.

“Good, but he can attend the next one, I am a merciful King, after all,” Louis added with a stern expression. 

“Truly, your Majesty.” 

†††

  

The ride back to the garrison was not as pleasant. It was silent and awkward. Where there was usually a highly amusing display of banter between at least four of his men, there was a strained uncomfortable silence. Tréville could see d’Artagnan was moping about being reprimanded before the King, but it was a small price to pay. Hopefully he could be back to his usual self soon, for his foul mood seemed to heavily affect his brother’s around him.

As if by means of answering his thoughts, Porthos leaned over and flicked the moping Gascon to catch his attention. The larger musketeer then nodded his head over to Aramis walking ahead of them and revealed a series of collected pebbles in his hand. With a wicked grin, Porthos took aim and launched the pebble into the air, watching with bated breath as if fell into the groove upon the top of his hat. A silent wave of victory washed over Porthos as he celebrated his fine aim, though Tréville saw this celebration was possibly more so for causing a bright smile to burst across the boy’s face. This smile only widened as Porthos offered his pebble collection out to d’Artagnan with a gesture of _after you_. After that came a series of missiles in Aramis’ direction until he had finally realised the weigh upon his head and taken the hat off to see the collection of pebbles, causing the culprits to burst into a fit of giggles.

It would not be the first, nor the last time, Tréville had been silently thankful of the four’s close friendship, but it was truly a wonder to him how the smallest of actions could turn their moods around.   

Once back at the garrison, many of the men sort to untack their horses and go about their duties, however Athos chose to tear after his Captain with an almighty vengeance, following Tréville up the stairs and into his office, closing the door before turning upon the Captain. 

“You have not seemed yourself since Clermont’s arrival,” Athos told him, watching as the Captain dropped himself into his chair, leaning his elbows against the desk.  

“The Comte is not a man I would readily take company with.”  Tréville growled back with all the hatred he possessed for the beast.

“But you would be willing to cut him down before the King?” Athos turned upon his Captain with a careful expression.

“You did not have enough time in Munier’s company to remember much of him,” the Captain told the musketeer before him, a weariness to his voice that reflected the aching and tiredness he felt throughout his soul.

“ _Munier?_ ” Athos uttered with a touch of confusion as to why they were discussing the dead musketeer, but he played along just the same. “He was a young lad, around d’Artagnan’s age, no where near as talented, but a good sort.” He noted stiffly, not one to wax lyrical.

“And how much have you learnt of the events that occurred?” Tréville pushed Athos to speak of what he knew.

“I was told the boy had grown senseless during the Comte’s last visit, some action of Clermont’s had riled him. So he confronted Clermont, before the King –half crazed, near the point of madness – and demanded a duel for his honour, the Comte obviously refused, laughed Munier out of the court. The boy killed himself that evening.”

Tréville sighed at this reveal by Athos, running his hands through his fingers, he had been fearful of the stories that circled around Munier’s mysterious breakdown and subsequent death. 

“All you need know of Clermont is that he is not a man but a wolf, a wolf with a particular appetite.” Tréville spoke softly though his tone was harsh and distant. “With no particular affinity for gender, Clermont simply favours the young and the unwilling…”

“ _Munier_ …” Athos breathed in sharply, suddenly placing all the pieces together for the first time.

“Could not live with the crimes against his person, nor could he deal with being among men of honour, when he felt he had none.”

“Why did you never tell us of this?” Athos spoke with a hollow tone, his haunted anger clear and threatening. “Why does no one know of Clermont’s offenses?”

“ _I have no proof_ , Athos,” Tréville revealed regrettably, “Munier confided in me only to hang himself the very same night. I cannot go against a man in the King’s favour with nothing more than a dead man’s word.”

“So we let him live? Is that it? He simply gets to carry on his crimes unpunished?” Athos roared, allowing his anger to bleed through, heating his tone. 

“Open your eyes, Athos, the world is not a kind place, you know this!”

“This is why you sent d’Artagnan to the river with the stable boys…” Athos’ thoughts suddenly backtracked to the events of that day, seeing all through a new perspective.  

“Clermont’s attentions has fallen upon our youngest,” Tréville told the musketeer with a heavy heart.

“If he touches a single hair on that boy’s head I will slit his throat, regardless of consequence.” Athos bit a growl as he met Tréville’s gaze with a fiery glare.

“I had expressed similar thoughts, though I believe our best course of action is to wade out the storm, keep the Comte’s attentions elsewhere – on festivities and frivolous matters.” Tréville offered, “Thankfully the King has not extended d’Artagnan an invitation to the fête tomorrow evening, the less time he spends in the Comte’s company, the better.”

“All the while he thinks you are punishing him unreasonably…” Athos muttered, though his tone revealed nothing of his thoughts on the matter.

“You think I should tell him?”

To this Athos offered a slight shake of his head in the negative. “D’Artagnan is brash at best, informing him of this threat would no doubt spur him into the Comte’s grasp…” Athos drawled with a sigh, reflecting upon the young Gascon in the courtyard. “His pride would prove to be his downfall.”

“Aramis and Porthos also, I would not wish to see their reaction to Clermont’s interest in d’Artagnan, nor do I wish to witness their revenge upon him.”  

“Then we say nothing,” Tréville concurred with a deep nod, “but we remain vigilante.”

“Agreed.” Athos nodded, moving towards the door, surprised when the Captain stood up to follow him, standing in the doorway.

Placing a hand upon his shoulder, Tréville spoke softly, “I swear to you I will not allow this monster to further torment those under my protection.”

“As will I,” Athos promised darkly. 

“Though we must not forget that d’Artagnan can also defend himself, his is not some blushing maiden. For all we treat our young Gascon like a child, he is an exceptionally skilled musketeer of his own – what in _God’s name_ is going on down there?!” Tréville growled as he moved out onto the balcony to see what all the noise was about.

What it turned out to be as d’Artagnan chasing after Aramis like a manic, darting around support beams and over tables, all while looking as though he were planning to skin the elder musketeer.

“This is – cause for – “Aramis laughed ducking another blow, as he ran around a large wooden support post. “ _Celebration_ , not –“ he cried out with a wicked grin, barely missing d’Artagnan’s flying fists, “anger!” 

“Exactly,” Porthos chuckled as he picked up d’Artagnan from behind, hauling in over his shoulder with ease, though the smaller man’s arms and legs flailed madly, “our little Gascon’s become a man!”

“Put me down!” d’Artagnan cried, squirming in Porthos’ hold.

“Gentlemen!” Tréville bellowed furiously, leaning over the balcony with a heavy scowl, causing the men in the courtyard below to freeze instantly and Porthos to drop the raving Gascon. “Explain yourselves!” 

“ _Aramis is an idiot_ ,” d’Artagnan growled at the exact same moment Aramis gave a bright grin and declared: “ _D’Artagnan has a beard_.”

“What?” Tréville’s brow creased heavily in utter confusion and bewilderment.

“Don’t worry,” Aramis reassured his Captain calmly, “it’s so tiny I nearly missed it mysel – _ouch_ ,” Aramis flinched as a d’Artagnan’s fist flew into his unguarded shoulder.

“I told you I just forgot to shave!” d’Artagnan protested, charging the grinning musketeer in hopes of landing another blow upon him. "I could grow one anytime I wished!"

“Protest all you wish, I know the truth,” Aramis laughed, ducking around Porthos to shield himself from d’Artagnan’s fury. “And I’m so proud!”

“ _Silence_!” Tréville barked with a thunderous echo that rang throughout the garrison. “Find something to do – _all of you_ – before put the lot of you on sentry duty for the next month, _do I make myself clear_?” 

A chorus of meek _yessir_ ’s were muttered under breath as the three stood silent, a touch of solemnness and embarrassment on their faces as they reflected on their childish antics. 

“You were saying…?” Athos drawled slowly causing Tréville to turn towards the musketeer by his side.

Athos’ right brow was high upon his forehead as he directed an accusing glare towards his Captain. Though the musketeer said nothing further, his expression spoke volumes. 

“Do not let him out of your sight,” Tréville sighed wearily, scraping his fingers across his scalp in frustration. “While Clermont remains in Paris, that boy does not _breathe_ without an escort.”

  

†††

  

Tréville had never been one for pomp and circumstance. Though indeed of noble birth and status, his humble Gascony upbringing had distilled within him a deeper affection for all things pure and simplistic – fête’s in all their pageantry did not sway his amusements so; particularly those caked in powder as to mask the hideousness beneath.

The day had come and gone with not further issue. D’Artagnan accepted his punishment of sorts, though he looked disappointed he could not be with his brothers this evening, he knew he had to follow orders.

Tréville chose to remain by the walls of the large ballroom, enjoying the easy vantage he had over the entire room. From his position, no one could move in this ballroom without him seeing.

However this worked both ways and Tréville soon found himself with an unwelcome companion.

“Youth is a gloriously delicious temptation, is it not Captain?” Clermont flittered out, tossing his lace napkin about frivolously in theatrics as he watched the dancing gentry with complete fascination. “So enticing, so captivating, yet wasted upon those who have it.”

“God bestows youth upon the young for a reason,” Tréville bit a snide reply, feeling sure that his skin was crawling by the very presence of the Comte near him. “It is ungodly to think otherwise.”

“Tis a shame your youngest could not attend,” Clermont asked with a light conversational tone, though there was clearly something sinister beneath it, like a snake hidden in the grass. “Moping back at your garrison is he?” 

“It is none of your concern were my musketeers are placed.”

“Oh, how possessive you are, Captain, never learnt to share did you?” Clermont chuckled, “Do not worry yourself, I have far more delicious distractions surrounding me this evening than to bother your lovely boys in blue.”

Tréville felt his knuckles crack under the pressure he was placing upon his clenched fists. He felt for sure, were he to look at his palms, he would see small crescent indents upon it from his fingernails.

“Well, as charming as you company is,” the Comte scoffed in a disapproving manner, “but I’m afraid there are far more beautiful things in this room than you.”

And with that the Comte filtered his way back into the crowd, consumed by the sea of people.

 “You handled that better than yesterday,” Athos suddenly appeared beside him, muttering his words under his breath so as not to be overheard by those around them. “I probably would have shot him,” he added quietly without a hint of emotion.

“I cannot just kill him, Athos,” Tréville hissed back, his eyes not leaving wave of people as he tried to locate the Comte, “his power is too great and is a dear friend of the King. We must go about this cautiously and bide out time.” 

“Much easier just to kill him,” Athos noted casually, only slightly veiling the disgust and anger that lurked beneath his skin as he watched Clermont fuss and flitter between the ladies of the court. 

“You’d be in the hangman’s noose before the sun rose…”

“Be worth it.” Athos growled back lowly, confusing Tréville slightly as it sounded more like something Porthos would say rather than the sullen musketeer.

“Rather impulsive of you,” Tréville noted, his eyes still trying to locate Clermont in amongst the hundreds of passing faces, “Shall I inform d’Artagnan his mentor is a hypocrite?”

 Athos gave his Captain a tight look before sighing, “I hated fêtes.”

"How did you handle the when you lived the life of a Comte?" Tréville wondered aloud, though apart of him already knew the answer. 

" _I drank_." Athos delivered his response with a deadpanned stare. 

 

†††

 

Time flittered by in an easy fashion as Tréville walked about the room, standing aside while others danced jovially and chattered frivolously about superficially subjects; fashion, wine, gossip. 

It had been sometime since Tréville had laid eyes upon the Comte, each time he thought he saw him, the man would disappear into the crowd of people once more. One moment he had seen the man titter about one of the Queen’s ladies in waiting and had seen the need to whisper a cautionary word in her Majesty’s ear. 

“Watch yourself, your Majesty,” Tréville warned her with the gentle kindest of father, “you and your ladies,” he sent meaningful glances towards the few decadently dressed women by the Queen’s side. “Do not let them walk alone in the halls or gardens.”

“Are we being threatened?” the Queen asked the Captain guardedly, watching the joyous crowd with newfound suspicion.

“I am just exercising caution, your Majesty, these types of events lend some to partake a little too much in excitement, some men are not as kind beneath their charming façades.”  

“You speak of the Comte,” the Queen revealed delicately.

“Has he treated you ill, your Majesty?” Tréville tried to calm his anger at her discomfort, surely Clermont would not have the nerve to attack the Queen of France? 

“No, nothing of the sort, it is just, I pride myself on having a decent ability of sensing a person’s true nature, Captain,” the Queen put diplomatically, “I sense a wickedness about the Comte that does not match his claims of purity and his fake charm.”   

“You are a wise woman indeed, but nevertheless you and your ladies should be on your guard, take a musketeer escort with you at all times.” Tréville warned her softly, “Clermont is not a man to underestimate.”

“Clermont?” Louis intruded upon their conversation loudly, appearing at the Queen’s side, a full glass of dark red wine in his hand. “Pity he was feeling unwell,” the King sighed petulantly, “I give the man a _fête_ and all he want to do is _walk in the gardens_.” 

“Clermont is not here?” Tréville blanched, his eyes searching the crowds desperately though he knew the man was not there.

“Oh yes, excused himself a little while ago, claimed he was ill.” The King shrugged flippantly, taking a sip from his glass of wine.

“Majesty, please excuse me, I must go,” Tréville pleaded his excuse desperate, his mind reeling.

“What, you too?” The King pouted, looking a little drunk, “Why does everyone wish to leave my fêtes early?”

“Come dear, I shall entertain you instead.” The Queen took her husband’s arm and led him into the crowds, leaving the Captain alone.

 Tréville wasted not another moment, dashing forth through the corridors of the palace with a fevered pace. His mind was ablaze with poisonous thoughts, spurring his feet as he leapt upon the closest horse, uncaring of its owner or the fact that its tack was badly secured.

The streets of Paris were a blur as he urged the horse into a galloping pace, which was dangerous in the usually crowded streets, but night had ensured there were little pedestrians to block his path.

His haste paused in the courtyard for the briefest of moment as he slid from the borrowed saddle, ignoring the horse completely. His pause was long enough to place together the events that had taken place. A bottle of the King’s fine sparking wine sat upon the table, two glasses beside it, with one upturned – there were no signs of an obvious struggle but that did nothing to reassure his thoughts. Though the Comte’s horse was still in the stable, which meant he was still at the garrison.

Fuelling the fire beneath his feet, Tréville ran to the dorms, sensing that this would be the Comte’s next port of call. D’Artagnan’s own lodgings were the second to last upon the Eastern corridor and something spurred him in that direction first.

As he broke through the door, his heart thudded painfully against his chest, almost breaking at the sight of his youngest recruit and his dear friend’s beloved son.

D’Artagnan lay upon his bed, looking asleep and blissfully unaware of the utterly monstrous man that shadowed overhead. The Comte’s fingers trailed across the boy’s neck and chest as if admiring him as if he were a carved statue, taking care as he unlaced the boy’s shirt.

“Move away from him.” Tréville snarled lowly, raising his pistol to the level of the Comte’s head, cocking the pistol and readying his stance.

“Captain!” Clermont yelped, leaping back from d’Artagnan instantly, his eyes widening at the sight of the pistol in his direction. “What are you doing? Put your gun down.”

“You have long surpassed my tolerance,” Tréville told him with a dead-cold stare. “This is simply the final nail upon your coffin." 

“Captain, please, see reason sir!” The Comte cowered under the aim of the pistol, holding his hands high as he whimpered like the coward he was, “I didn’t touch him, I have done nothing wrong!”

“But you would have done,” Tréville countered, his pistol unwavering in its mark, his voice an utter parody of himself, cold, lifeless, accusing, hateful and unmerciful. “Just as you have done to countless others before, just as you did to Munier." 

“You would not shoot an unarmed man!” Clermont begged with a ferocity only seen in those begging for their lives. “It violates every code of chivalry, you are a man of honour, Sir, you cannot!” 

It was in that moment the Tréville realised Clermont was not the wolf, _he was_. He the Alpha of his wolf pack, he was the predator before his cowering prey, the beast with razor-sharp claws that would rip the flesh who dared to strike against his own. This demon before him had invaded his den and tormented his pack; there would be no mercy for these crimes. 

“You are not a man,” Tréville snarled menacingly, releasing the ball with expert precision, sinking the lead deep into the monster’s thick skull without a moment’s hesitation. 

The pure ecstasy released within was beyond horrifying, though he relished it all the same. Civility was kept for decent folk. All others deserved his wrath.

It was all over in a matter of seconds, Clermont was dead, leaking blood sluggishly upon the worn wooden floorboards, lifeless.

Wearily, Tréville moved towards the unconscious boy upon the bed, sitting beside him to assess the damage. The Captain thanked God above reverently that d’Artagnan’s clothes remain intact and seemingly untouched.  There was a small red mark upon the boy’s throat that looked as though it had been made with teeth. That made Tréville wish he had killed the Comte in a slower fashion, a shot to the stomach rather than the head, it was cruel but nothing that the cruel monster didn’t deserved.

“D’Artagnan?” Tréville attempted to wake the boy, gently shaking his shoulder though it seemed to no avail. D’Artagnan’s heart beat strong and his breath drew uninterrupted and there was no grievous wound upon him but he was completely unconscious, looking more as if he were simply in a deep sleep.

Clermont had most probably given the boy some sleeping tonic, to even allow him to get d’Artagnan here. The very thought left a horrific taste in Tréville’s mouth, the thought of what could have happened, had he arrived too late, had he not noticed Clermont’s absence, had Clermont been subtler with his advances.

“It would have killed them all,” he muttered aloud to the sleeping boy, brushing away the dark locks that had fallen across his face, thinking of the three men who would move Heaven and Earth for the boy in the bed. “You could not even being to understand what this would have done to them.”

In sleep, all Tréville could see was the tiny boisterous babe he had once met all those years ago, giggling happily upon his proud father’s knee. Though little Charles was a now a gallant musketeer, with enough acclaims to his name to make his father even more proud, it was hard not to see the doe-eyed Gascon babe bumbling about the farmyard dutifully after his father.    

The stench of cooling blood and gunpowder hung in the air around them, reminding Tréville that it would be best to remove d’Artagnan from the room before he woke. It would no doubt be a shock to wake to find your quarters drenched in blood with a Comte of the King’s esteem lying dead upon your floor. No, he would spare d’Artagnan that rude awakening. Taking the boy in his arms, Tréville lifted d’Artagnan off the bed gently, making his way out into the corridor, closing the door behind him. Someone would have to deal with Clermont’s body, but for now his first task was to see that d’Artagnan was alright. 

It was in that moment that Tréville met with three distressed musketeers in his path. 

“Captain?” Athos’ voice was breathy and judging from the heavy breathing from the other two, it was easy to see they had tore after their Captain with not a moment to spare.  

“Take him.” Tréville told them with little emotion in his voice, offering the boy in his arms out towards the three men.

All three immediately stepped forward to catch the boy, but Porthos proved to be closest, taking d’Artagnan into his arms with gentle ease, one hand cradling the boy’s head against his chest while the other scooped under his knees. They all carried the signs of emotional torment upon the state of their youngest.

Aramis flittered about the unconscious boy, frantically seeking signs of life and the ferocity within Athos’ eyes were reflective of that within Tréville’s heart, though the Captain saw need to calm his men.

“He’s fine,” Tréville revealed with a weighted stare, conveying a deeper meaning to the stormy musketeer before him. “Not a scratch on him,” he added lightly, though he knew these were the words Athos needed to hear. “I swear upon my honour.” 

“What does that mean?” Porthos growled at Athos and the Captain, sensing the subtext being spoken over him.

“It means he’s fine.” Athos gave a look to the larger man that he would reveal all later and Tréville allowed this. The Captain completely trusted Athos to handle this situation with his brothers, whatever Athos decided they needed would be what they were given. 

“Just mysteriously unconscious…” Aramis murmured under his breath unconvinced by Athos’ reassurances, sharing a look with Porthos, though they said nothing more. 

With a delicate shrug, Tréville unburdened himself of his cloak and fleur-de-lis crested chest plate, loosening the buckled just enough to slide it off with practiced ease. Munier’s vengeance had been dealt, his satisfaction gained before the eyes of God and all that is holy. Now he would face his punishment.

“Olivier d’Athos de la Fère, _Athos_ , I hereby name you my successor and Captain hence forth until further notice or until stated otherwise by his Royal Majesty, King Louis XIII of France.” Tréville spoke with duty and honour as he bestowed his swords and pistol, along with his cloak and breastplate to the musketeer before him.

“Captain –?“ Athos blinked, his hands numbly cradling the Captain’s effects, shock and surprise clearly written upon his face as he stared up at Tréville.

“Let him stay with you, he needs rest but his lodgings…” Tréville paused, thinking of the blood that splattered across the walls and the Comte’s lifeless body inhabiting a large portion of the room. “Are not fit to occupy him.” 

“And what state are his lodging in exactly…?” Aramis posed his question cautiously, clearly not wishing to propose judgment but curious all the same.

“The Comte de Clermont will not be returning to his estate, though I am sure his family will be wanted his possession. It would be best to send someone to gather his possessions as he will not be needing them.”

To their credit, not one of them spoke. They simply stood in confusion and shock at the Captain’s calm and pleasant demeanour.

“Now, if you will excuse me, gentleman,” Tréville nodded with deep respect and civility, the very picture calm in his every movement, “I have a murder to confess.”

With that the Captain turned upon his heels, making his exit, leaving three gapping musketeers in his shadow. 

With a contented determination, Tréville turned the corridor to the stairwell, swearing he heard Aramis’ overwhelmed voice utter:

 “ _Your name’s Olivier_ …?”

 

†††

 

Though he had been in and out of the Châtelet many times during his years as Captain, he had never been upon the other side of the bars. The horrific cries and bellows of tortured agony that filled the cold stone walls, felt like nails upon his flesh, dragging him down into the pitiful abyss that was the prison around.

Thankfully – by some mercy of god or respect from the prison guards – he had been given a separate cell to wade out the night, unmolested by the villainous   miscreants that haunted these halls, like souls upon a graveyard.  

Perhaps, if he were _truly_ unlucky, the King would sentence him to life in prison. Give him the block, the rope, the gun; give him the infinite any day. Give him anything other than his hell they labelled a prison. 

A sharp twist of the thick iron lock upon his cell, had Tréville’s gaze upon barred door in an instant. The jailer was gruff and hideously unkempt, though the Captain did not resist when the man pulled at his chains, releasing Tréville.

Without a word of explaination, his jailor pulled him from his cell, spurring him down a series of dank and ill-light corridors, past cell after cell of jeering inmates. Was he bound for the courtyard? To be executed by ways of firing squad? Surely he was to stand trial first?  

To his surprise, he was not let into the executioner’s courtyard, but rather to the prison’s main entrance, where a large heavily decorated carriage lay in wait. 

“For all the years you’ve served as Captain, this is by far the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.” The Cardinal scoffed mockingly as he stepped out of the carriage, beckoning Tréville to climb inside.

“I was not expecting an escort, though I suppose you volunteered, simply to see me in chains.” Tréville growled, his pride flaring as their age-old rivalry spurred his heated words, though he entered the carriage all the same.

“While the idea was tempting, I came merely to see what all the fuss was about.” Richelieu chuckled as he followed the Captain, calling out to the driver to move off.

They rode in silence for a little while. In all honesty Tréville was beyond exhausted by the ordeals of the previous evening and his time spend within the confines of the Châtelet prison. Though the Captain’s appearance revealed this exhaustion clearly, this did not stop the Cardinal from making conversation.

“Do not expect much sympathy from his Majesty,” Richelieu proposed lightly as they travelled across the crowded Parisian streets. “Your little altercation put rather a damper upon his celebrations,” the Cardinal frowned scathingly, though there was a sense of veiled amusement behind the withering glance. 

“The fête finished early?” Tréville frowned, having not heard anything from the palace regarding the previous evening.

“Yes well, it is rather difficult to continue festivities when the guest of honour has a musket ball in his head and his blood paints the walls your Musketeer’s garrison.”

“It was a pistol,” Tréville noted absently, rubbing his aching wrist lightly to relieve the pain that burned from the presence of the weighted manacles.

“Ah, my apologies,” the Cardinal snapped facetiously as the carriage turned towards the Louvre gates.

“Here, you are to appear before the King, clean yourself up first,” Richelieu sniped, producing a small bowl of water and cloth, “common criminal does not suit you.”

 

†††

 

The King’s mood was indeed most foul. He fussed and pranced before his throne is a hideous rage, tossing about phrases such as ‘ _disappointment to the Crown’_ and _‘shame to the Musketeer name’_. And all the while, Tréville remained silent and stoic, listening to the King’s reprimands but never given an excuse for his behaviour. 

“You are one of the most honest and loyal subjects at my court, Captain,” Louis sighed, clearly exhausted from his fit of anger as he moved to sit heavily upon his throne rather than pace about it. “I honestly forget sometimes that you are a soldier at heart, a warrior first, forged in blood and fire of battle. You favour action over simple discussion.”

Tréville frowned upon the picture his Majesty was painting of him, as if he were some untameable berserker fresh from the battlefield. And while the Captain wished to correct the King’s overly romanticised notion of him – labelling him as some caricature tin soldier with nothing upon his mind but war and blood – he remained ever silent, keen to see where his Majesty’s words were heading. 

“I had heard rumours surrounding the Comte,” the King uttered softly as if he were simply discussing the fine weather that morning or the season’s latest fashion trend. “Rumours that did not bode well for his character, especially considering his close friendship with myself.”

Tréville waited in silence, contemplating his Majesty’s words with meticulous consideration, unsure if he was truly hearing correctly.

“And while I usually ignore such slander pertaining to my most effluent of subjects,” Louis continued softly, causing Tréville’s eyes to rise in surprise, his heart fluttering as releasing to direction of the King’s speech. “I cannot ignore such things when they come from both of my most trusted men and dearest of friends.”

 _Both_?

Tréville’s gaze darted from his Majesty’s person to that of the man beside him.

Richelieu’s expression gave nothing away, though it was obvious of whom the King spoke, no other could claim such a friendship with the King other than the Cardinal himself.

“And so hence forth I absolve you, Clermont was an abominable sort and probably deserved worse than what he got.”

 _Undoubtedly_ , Tréville uttered inside his mind, though to the King he said “Thank you, your Majesty,” and nodded reverently, adding, “Not all would be so forgiving and just.”

“Nonsense,” the King chucked, looking a touch bashful, “now run along, I’ve had quite enough of this whole bothersome escapade.”

Both the Captain and the Cardinal bid the King a cordial goodbye and left the throne room by way of the main door. It was only once they were a far way down that the Captain turned to Richelieu, pausing the other man’s gait.  

“I, uh – _thank you_ ,” Tréville revealed softly, unable to find any other way of expressing his thanks.

“Clermont was a disgrace to France, his dalliances were becoming a nuisance, far outweighing his usefulness.” Richelieu noted conversationally with a touch of nonchalance. “His young son has recently become of age and is a dear friend of mine. I have faith he will prove to be an even greater Comte, with my tutelage of course.”

“So it was all purely in self interest?” Tréville smiled, reading through the Cardinal’s cleverly constructed mask of indifference.

“Undoubtedly,” Richelieu proposed with a blank expression. 

Feeling as though he would get no further word upon the subject, Tréville offered the Cardinal a deep nod before making his way down the long extravagant corridor. 

“Captain,” Richelieu called out after Tréville had only taken a few steps.

“I may tolerate a great deal of occurrences deemed despicable in your eyes, but even I can see when such acts go far beyond the redeemable.”

Tréville nodded with a friendly smile, before making his exit, truly thankful for those who had stood by his side. It was true what they said about allies, you often found them in the most unlikely of places.

 

†††

 

 

“That’s my bread!” d’Artagnan’s voice carried across the entire courtyard as Tréville paused at the garrison’s entrance.

“Is not a communal loaf?” Porthos frowned in mock surprise.

“You took it off my plate!” d’Artagnan accused the other man, gapping comically with a disgusted look upon his face as Porthos licked the boy’s portion of bread before putting it on his own plate. 

“I licked it so it’s mine now!” The larger musketeer announced cheerfully.

“Ugh, _Aramis_!” d’Artagnan whined with a small pout.

“I’m afraid he’s right, d’Artagnan, it’s a clear law of ownership.” Aramis told the boy regretfully.

“Athos, come back! Porthos nicked my bread!” d’Artagnan called out into the garrison, though he did not get a reply.

“What a brat you are!” Porthos chuckled, flicking small balls of rolled soft bread at the boy.  

“Hey quit it!” d’Artagnan swatted the bread pellets that flew at him.

“Porthos stop playing with your food…” Aramis rolled his eyes only to become the larger musketeer’s newest target, “ _oi_!” he yelped, before grabbing himself a piece of bread to retaliate. “Oh, big mistake…” he smiled darkly, lining up Porthos in his sights, readying his bread projectile.

Tréville couldn’t help but chuckle as he watched from afar. Concealed by the shadowy archway of the garrison, it was clear the three men were far too occupied in their squabble to notice their Captain’s eye upon them. The simple quiet – or in this case loud – moments between the brothers were rare and wondrous to behold. Too often his men looked old beyond their years, jaded by the hurtful cards fate had dealt them. But it was truly heart-warming to see them act like children, like his children. His lost boys. All emerging from disconnected pasts, joined by a likeness in spirit and heart.

“I believe you will be needing this back,” Athos crept forth silently out of the shadows producing Tréville’s effects, placing them into the Captain’s hands gently.

“Thank you for looking after them.” Tréville said with an appreciative nod, securing his sword and gun at his waist, he cloak upon his shoulder, welcoming in the familiar weight of his possessions upon his person. It was like the embrace of an old friend, or more accurately a limb, with them he felt bare and exposed. With them he felt whole.

“That is all I ever would’ve done.” Athos told him, his honesty clear and unwavering. 

“I will not always be able to lead you, Athos, you must know that there will come a day were I must chose a successor.” Tréville sighed, this was a conversation that he had long since wanted to have with the other man, but had never found the right opportunity. Athos was the clear candidate for the position, though Tréville was unsure whether the man would ever accept the idea. Athos did not appose leadership amongst the other musketeers but somehow recoiled at Captaincy.  

“Indeed, I believe I have someone in mind,” Athos uttered softly as he watched the three musketeers at the table, d’Artagnan cheering in triumph as he tossed a cup of water at Aramis, soaking the man’s face and shirt, which proved an ill-thought out plan as Aramis had a cup of his own behind his back.

“How is he?” Tréville wondered aloud, unsure whether he truly wanted an answer. D’Artagnan seemed fine, but if history was his guide, one could never be too sure of what lay beneath the surface, what tormented the subconscious. 

“Aramis thinks Clermont gave d’Artagnan a tincture of some unknown concoction,” Athos supplied absently, “he is unharmed by its effects but remembers nothing of last nights events.”

“Thank the Lord for small mercies.” Tréville breathed in relief, finally allowing himself to relax for the first time since Clermont arrived. 

“You were prepared to forfeit all you’d obtain in life to protect d’Artagnan’s honour…” Athos asked softly.

“I am your Captain, Athos, it is my duty to protect those who serve by my side.” Tréville told Athos fiercely, eyes locked upon the man before him to ensure his words held weight. He kept this stare for a moment before relaxing with a shake of his head. “That and his father would butcher me from beyond the grave were anything to happen to his golden son.”

“I often try to picture d’Artagnan’s father,” Athos pondered quietly with a frown, “but all that comes to mind is d’Artagnan with a farmer’s beard…”

“Oh that boy is nothing like his father,” Tréville chuckled fondly, unabashedly.

“In heart, yes, in duty and honour, but his fire? That is all his mother. His looks too, that is all Caterina. She was a truly remarkable woman, more beautiful than an angel, with the temper of a banshee.”

“She sounds like a fine woman.” 

“The very best.”

“You knew his father then?” Athos frowned, clearly curious as to why the Captain had never said this to any of them.

“Yes, Alexandre and I were close friends, Caterina also, I even met d’Artagnan once, as a child, he was all limbs and bruised knees,” Tréville revealed with an affectionate smile, his mind travelling back to bygone eras.

“So, a week ago?” Athos uttered slyly.

“Yes, well he hasn’t changed much since, he poked my ankle with a stick and demanded a duel to attain satisfaction,” Tréville chuckled with a fond smile, before adding, “He was _two_.”

“Sounds like him,” Athos snorted with a roll of his eyes.

Tréville bit his lip, anxious of the guilt within his gut as he placed his hand upon Athos’ shoulder. “Athos, know that there is nothing I would not do to protect my men. I understand my past actions have not always proven this, but that does not mean I do not bleed when my men are cut.”

“And us you, Sir.” Athos concurred deeply, before wincing as Porthos’ unabashed laugh interrupted them as he threw a half eaten apple towards d’Artagnan’s head, missing it only by a hair’s breadth.  

“If lunch is always in this fashion, it is no wonder the boy is so thin,” Tréville chuckled humorously.

“I really should…” Athos nodded at the squabbling men, now in the midst of a large-scale food fight that had spread to the width of the entire courtyard, clearly eager to stop the skirmish before it took over the streets of Paris. 

But Tréville had a different idea. 

“I’m going for a walk, I expect I won’t be back for some time…” Tréville announced, “incidentally I believe there’s a box of rotten fruit by the far west corner, apparently they make excellent projectiles…”

A glint of sly mischief sparkled in Athos’ eyes as he nodded politely, “I hope you have a pleasant walk.”

“I intend to,” the Captain smiled, bidding the musketeer good afternoon with a slight nod, allowing Athos to rush forth into battle against his brothers.

As Tréville walked out into the fresh Spring afternoon he chuckled at the shrieks and cries that rang from the garrison behind him, relishing the moment more dearly than any sparkling gem or polished gold.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading :) Review and let me know what you thought! :) Next chapter is Athos and then it's d'Artagnan's chapter. xxx


	5. Athos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Athos does not play well with others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thank you so much to everyone who has read, reviewed, kudos and bookmarked this story!!! I can't believe how wonderful you've all been!! It's so amazing :) 
> 
> So a lot of you have been saying how much you have been looking forward to this chapter, so I really hope it lives up to your expectations! :0
> 
> Sorry it's so late! Really sorry! (but it's longer than the others :) ) xx
> 
> (as ever I can't catch all my mistakes, so if you see a really awful mistake please let me know so I can change it! :) cause it's super awkward having really obvious ones hanging around!)

The morning was bright and hot, though none expected differently for a sunny day in July. Heat seemed to cling to the streets of Paris in a way that was completely juxtaposed to the country. With densely compacted streets and population, the city gripped tight to the stifling warmth where country winds would have eased it by. 

Summer in Paris had a habit of turning even the most dutiful of soldiers into lazy men, the heat broiling their minds to think of nothing but cool streams and shaded pastures. Hence, this morning the four could think of nothing better to do than to sit about the garrison slothfully, passing the time with little energy for work. All except d'Artagnan as it turned out.  

“If you polish that any further, you’ll wear a hole in it…” Athos observed casually as he watched d’Artagnan rubbing wax into his already immaculate pauldron.

“Planning to blind your enemies with its shine?” Aramis inquired with a smirk, “Set their feet ablaze with the sun’s almighty power?”

“I knew a man once who could start a fire with nothing more than a bit of sunlight and his eyeglasses.” Porthos shrugged as if the idea seemed plausible.

Feeling brave - and perhaps rather bored - Aramis pounced like a small cat and reached over the table in attempts to pluck it from the boy’s hands.

“Ah, ah, ah,” d’Artagnan scolded, pulling the leather pauldron away from prying hands, “hands off.”

“Grumpy this morning aren’t we?” Aramis tutted, poking the pauldron before sitting back in his seat upon the top of the table.   

“Don’t –“ 

“ _Touch the uniform_ ,” Aramis mocked, hands held high in surrender, “I know.”

“Little bit protective of that, aren’t we?” Porthos pried slyly.

“That is because you lot ruined my first one within a week!”

“You should be thanking us, this one’s a lot nicer,” Porthos sniffed defensively, “much sturdier too.” 

“Porthos, d’Artagnan, my office.” Tréville’s commanding tones rang down from the balcony above, alerting the four men instantly.

“Duty calls,” d’Artagnan beamed excitedly, dropping the rag and quickly set about replacing his leather pauldron back upon his shoulder, before following Porthos up the stairs towards Tréville’s office.

Athos sent a scornfully raised brow in Aramis direction.  

"I have apologised a thousand fold for the incident, but between losing him or that bloody piece of leather, I think we all would've made the same choice."

D'Artagnan had barely had his leather musketeer pauldron a week before it had almost cost him his life. Completely unused to wearing armour on his shoulder, he had arrogantly ignored attempting to train with it before they had been ordered to ride out to dissolve a large brawl in a small town just outside the city. D'Artagnan had been thrown during the course of the fight - his usual fighting style stunted by the added weight and movement of the tight leather - and been half buried by a collapsing roof. Luckily the boy had been able to survive with nothing more than a heavily bruised shoulder, though - much to d'Artagnan's chagrin and anguish - Aramis had been forced to sacrifice the boy's prized leather insignia in the process. 

"I know, and I have told him such," Athos said quietly, "just don't ruin this one." 

"You scuffed it," Aramis told him in a defensive tone. 

"It looked too new," Athos supplied simply, and was about to explain his point further when an unfamiliar voice interrupted him. 

“Charles d’Artagnan!” The bellow rang clear through the garrison as a figure appeared in the entrance archway as silhouette.

 “What has that idiot done now…?” Athos directed his question to the Heavens above, hoping some answer would be found there. But apparently not as none came.

“Charles d’Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony!” The dishevelled man stepped into the centre of the courtyard, a battered and rusted looking rapier drawn and his piercing blue eyes searching the yard keenly.

The man was tall and broad, in similar proportions to Porthos, though as far as the rest of his appearance went, he was the complete opposite. Sun-bleached hair shone radiantly as it dusted the man’s shoulders, contrasting with his richly tanned skin and clear blue eyes. He seemed to be a little older than d'Artagnan's age, though his large stature was misleading, he could have been the same age. Despite his unkempt appearance, the man looked as if he had walked out of one an oil painting. 

“Bring forth your sword, one of us shall die this day!” The blonde announced with fevered theatrics, throwing his sword about before him in a completely amateurish manner – clearly the man knew nothing about the art of swordplay and would no doubt be skewered upon d’Artagnan’s blade within moments.

“And to think I thought the morning was going to be dull,” Athos sighed, as he sluggishly pushed himself up from the bench and turned towards the pacing blonde.

“He sounds like a Gascon, perhaps it is simply how they say hello…” Aramis chuckled, following Athos’ lead upon the matter as he walked over to the musketeer’s side.  Athos smirked at Aramis’ jest, thinking of their hot-headed Gascon.

“What business do you have with d’Artagnan?” Athos demanded of the stranger.

“That, Monsieur, is between he and I,” the blonde man retorted in an almost playful manner, which confused Athos. It was strange that this man was so determined to duel d’Artagnan, yet he seemed rather flippant and casual about the entire affair, despite his angered words.

“If it is a duel you wish, I would be glad to stand in on account of his absence.” Athos offered in a polite tone, though he kept his expression vacant. Even with time on his hands, he bored easily when dealing with lunatics.

“As would I,” Aramis spoke up as he swiped a large red apple from the table, polishing it nonchalantly on his sleeve. “Though I would like to know what issue you have with the lad before we settle these matters.” Aramis added before taking a large bite of the apple.

However no swords were drawn as the intense stand off between the three was instantly dissolved as d'Artagnan laughed brightly from the top of the stairs. 

“Vincent!” d’Artagnan beamed widely, his eyes practically sparkling as he leapt down the stairs, three at a time, rushing up to the stranger with joyful excitement, practically launching himself into the blonde’s arms.  

“Come here, Runt!” The taller man, _Vincent_ evidently, laughed as he pulled the young Gascon into a rib-aching embrace, swinging him around slightly. “God you’re a lot bigger than you once were!”

Athos stood back in awe as he watched the overjoyed young Gascon embrace his… _friend?_ _Brother?_ They did not look alike and d’Artagnan had never spoke of having anyone back in Gascony, so who was this? The boy had only every mentioned his father and that was on rare occasion. Hell, Athos had only ever known about the boy’s mother from the Captain. All else was a mystery. Oddly enough, it hurt that d’Artagnan had kept this from them, even though they had no right to pry – Athos especially. His own secrets had nearly sent d’Artagnan to an early grave. No, Athos had not right to demand such things from d’Artagnan. But it still twinged his heart that the young musketeer had never said anything at all.

“ _Get off_ ,” d’Artagnan moaned fondly as he squirmed his way out of the tight hug, though still allowing Vincent’s hand upon his shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

“I have not heard word of you since you left with your father for Paris, you say you are to be gone the month and over a year has past. With your farm destroyed, I feared the worst.” Vincent looked concerned, but there was something else there that peaked Athos' interest, something beneath the surface that did not sit right in the musketeer's mind. Why would Vincent appear now, so long after Lebarge had ransacked Lupiac and the surrounding towns, why not then?  

D’Artagnan’s mood deflated visibly and Athos watched as the painful memories washed over the young musketeer’s features. It would still be sometime before those wounds healed over.

“Are you not going to introduce us?” Aramis sauntered forward casually, evaluating the newcomer with a wide smile.

“Oh sorry,” d’Artagnan ducked his head slightly, “Vincent, this is Athos, Porthos and Aramis of the King’s musketeers.” He nodded to each respectively.

Each musketeer’s greetings followed in accordance of a scathing raised brow, a suspicious glare and a bright beaming smile.

“Not the only one, I see,” Vincent snorted, flicking the leather pauldron strapped upon d’Artagnan’s right shoulder.

Athos watched the boy flinch at the disrespect upon his prized pauldron and completely expected d’Artagnan to reprimand the blonde Gascon for the crime committed against his precious uniform. However, d’Artagnan said nothing, brushing off the incident as if it had not occurred.

“Who knew you could swing a sword, let alone protect the King of France?” Vincent chuckled brashly with a smug smile, causing a cold feeling to sweep through Athos. 

“D’Artagnan is one of the finest musketeers in the garrison,” Athos stepped forward, his tone was drawled and icy, his gaze ever the more. “He has the makings the be one of the greatest.”

“Well if Runt’s the best you lot have, may the good lord save us all!” Vincent jibed, looping his arm around the younger boy’s neck and pulling him in, ruffling his hair.

“Vincent quit it!” d’Artagnan grumbled but allowed himself to be pulled about by the larger man.

“Well aren’t you going to buy me a drink, Runt?” Vincent pulled back, “saw a nice tavern just round the corner, some right gorgeous girls in there too.”

“I – uh,” d'Artagnan looked between Vincent and Athos, clearly unsure what he was supposed to do in the situation. It was plain to see the young Gascon was torn, not wanting to disappoint his friend but also reluctant to leave his duty.

“D’Artagnan has duties that must be put before drinks with old friends…” Athos spoke up in turn, seeing it 

“Ah, more’s the pity,” Vincent pouted a little at the news, “How about you join me tonight, we can finally catch up after our long absence, eh Charlie?”

“Of course,” d’Artagnan agreed with a nod and a small smile. 

“Oh it’s so good to see you kid,” Vincent beamed, kissing d’Artagnan brashly on the forehead before making his exit towards the garrison's archway. 

“Old Cockerel, six o’clock, come then or not at all!” Vincent called back, his voice echoing around the garrison even after he’d disappeared from sight.

 “Right…” d’Artagnan sighed, still starring at the now empty archway.

“You are not happy to see your old friend?” Athos queried with light tone, though internally he felt his jealousy assuage. An sense of possessiveness had swept over him in that span of a few moments. Rationally, d'Artagnan had the right to friends of a large variety, however Athos could not help but feel jealousy's green tipped claws dig into him as had watched Vincent push d'Artagnan around. 

“No, it’s not that, it is just an odd feeling,” d’Artagnan sighed as he turned his gaze from the large archway back to Athos, “Like two opposite worlds meeting, it’s not a bad thing just odd.”

“Why does he call you that?” Aramis ventured curiously.

“Huh? Charlie?” d’Artagnan frowned, cocking his head to the side slightly, “my first name is Charles. It’s not like people called me by my last name is Lupiac, especially not when my father was around.” 

“We gathered that,” Porthos snorted with a wily grin, giving the boy an patronising stare.

“I was talking about the other name he called you,” Aramis said, a little softer this time.

“ _Oh_ , that, yeah, I was the youngest and smallest of the other boys in Lupiac, hence the name, I don’t particularly like it, but the name sort of… _stuck_.” 

“Doesn’t suit you,” Athos muttered under his breath, not meeting the boy’s gaze, though he could see d’Artagnan look up at him in the corner of his eye.

“Right,” Porthos spoke up before d’Artagnan had the chance to speak, “Captain’s got me and d’Artagnan on a missive to the other side of town, but we’re all to meet at the palace at noon, he didn’t say what for.” 

“Brilliant…” Athos uttered cynically, silently praying that this was his first and last encounter with d'Artagnan's childhood friend. 

 

†††

 

The remainder of the day was an abysmal bore –with not a drop of wine to dull the achingly slow pace. Turns out the Captain’s secret assignment at the palace had been to stand guard at the Queen’s summer luncheon. Notable ladies of the surrounding cities had joined her with small pastries as they flittered over the pregnant woman with high-pitched squealing and cooing.

Unsurprisingly, Athos could see that Aramis only had eyes for one of the ladies at the table. Though a lover of life and all things beautiful, Aramis only fell in love with one woman at a time. But when this happened, it always seemed to be with someone far beyond his station, first the Cardinal’s mistress and now the Queen.  

D’Artagnan had spent the time informing them of the _amazing_ adventures of his dear friend, Vincent – who Athos thought the man sounded like a complete idiot.

The afternoon was a blur of _Vincent did this_ … _One time Vincent…_ _Did you know, Vincent can…_

Utterly maddening. 

It seemed d'Artagnan's dear friend had an even greater attraction for dangerous situations than their own Gascon. Though if the boy's stories were anything to go on, it was Vincent's carefree attitude and arrogance that led him there rather than dumb luck - which had always seemed to be d'Artagnan's issue. 

 

†††

 

“Stop pouting,” Aramis noted slyly, “one would think you did not enjoy our wonderful company.” 

“I’m not pouting,” Athos ground back his answer through his clenched teeth.

D’Artagnan had left some time ago to partake in jovial merriment with his wonderful old friend. And while both Aramis and Porthos had suggested they partake in their own festivities, Athos had declined their offer, which in turn saw the three placed around their usual table in the garrison courtyard. Porthos was attempting to carve a small obscure figure into the side of the table, while Aramis had taken to cleaning his guns – even though they had not been fired at all that day.

Athos had been perfectly happy to stare at the grains in the wooden table, until Aramis had so politely decided to interrupt his thoughts. 

“You’re pouting.” Aramis repeated, though his argument was no more sound than before.

This time Athos did not give Aramis the satisfaction of a retort, but rather he simply glared at the man before him.

“That thing that you’re doing with your lip, just now, that my friend is pouting in its truest form.” Aramis continued.

“It’s not pouting, it’s frowning,” Athos tightened his frown, attempting to illustrate his point.

“No, you always frown, _this_ , “Aramis circled the outline of the man’s face in the air with his index finger, gesturing to Athos’ features, “is pouting.”

“I’m not – “

“Porthos is he pouting?” Aramis asked across the table.

“Yup,” Porthos agreed, not looking up from the engrained doodle he seemed to be stabbing. 

“I’m not pouting!” Athos exhaled in frustration, throwing his hands upon the table.  

“Look, you clearly do not speak to Madame Bonacieux enough,” Aramis noted absently as he pick up his cloth in order to polish the silver on his pistol. 

“No I don’t, I make it a habit to not seek out married women to entertain myself with.” Athos returned in a contemptuous tone, insinuating a deeper subtext. 

“I would never and you know it.” Aramis retorted sharply, looking a little offended by Athos’ accusations. “She is d’Artagnan’s greatest love and a dear friend.”

“Whatever your point is I fear you have lost your way in reaching it.” Athos sighed in frustration. 

“D’Artagnan is young and excitable,” Aramis chuckled with a warm smile, before adding slyly, “if you are so put out by how he talks of others, you should hear of how he discusses us.”  

“How does he speak of us?” Athos peered up from the table, suddenly very interested in what Aramis had to say.

“No, your ego is far too big already, as is Porthos’,” Aramis told them scornfully.

“Hey!” Porthos retorted, taking his dagger from the table and pointing it in Aramis’ direction.

“Let him have his fun, Athos,” Aramis sighed, “I’m sure he’ll be back to thinking you’re the greatest thing to walk this Earth once the sun rises.”

 

†††

 

As it turned out, Aramis could not have been more wrong in his predictions. Indeed the sun did rise to welcome another blisteringly scorching morning, making all of those under it suffer immensely. D’Artagnan on the other hand was in no mood to praise his fellow brother’s in arms, more rather all he could utter to them were a series of mournful mutters as he attempted to curl into a small dark, cold ball and remain there.

Evidently Vincent liked to drink. And liked those with him to drink. Quite unfortunate for d’Artagnan as he now looked like a melting corpse and they were scheduled for parade duty at the palace – the Queen was to farewell her esteemed luncheon guests with tea in the gardens before their departure. 

With the hot summer sun burning down upon them in their thick leather uniforms, their youngest musketeer was doing a rather good impersonation of a snowman in August. 

D’Artagnan was looking particularly sickly to the point of were his skin looked green and ashen as he lightly swayed, barely about to stand upon his own feet.

“How are you holding up?” Aramis turned his head to the side to access the boy’s poor appearance.

“My head’s about to burst and I am moments away from ruining his Majesty’s flowerbed with my breakfast.” D’Artagnan moaned meekly, his eyes glazing over with the nausea that was clearly assaulting his body.

“Well it serves you right for going drinking last night,” Athos sniffed, his tone sharp and without sympathy. 

“That’s rich, coming from you…” d’Artagnan snorted, though he regretting it as he bit back a strangled moaned.

“He’s right you know,” Porthos smirked, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“I am always fit for duty.” Athos returned curtly.

“I’m going to remind you of that one day…” Porthos promised wirily.

“A distraction would be nice right about now,” d’Artagnan yelped weakly as he paled further, gripping the hilt of his sword tight as if somehow that would relief the sickening pain he was in. 

“Really?” Aramis frowned, assessing the boy with worried eyes. 

“Yup.” D'Artagnan groaned hoarsely. 

“There’s a line of hedges around that corner to the left, beyond that is a large fountain.” Porthos nodded his head slightly to the left, "It's clean enough to drink."

"Soak this and put it on the back of your neck." Aramis told him, bundling his sash into d'Artagnan's arms. 

"Thanks," the young musketeer gave Aramis and Porthos a weak smile before rushing off in search of the fountains. 

 “Idiot…” Athos muttered under his breath as he watched d'Artagnan duck off in the bushes.   

“It’s a right of passage, Athos,” Aramis chided, “every young recruit has to deal with his terrible decisions of the previous evening.”  

“He knew we had parade duty today, his wounds are self inflicted.” Athos sniffed. "He doesn't get my pity." 

 “That is not fair, you place him on such a high pedestal, one mistake in your eyes and you punish him severely.”

"I hold him in the same respect as anyone else."

"That's a lie and you know it." Porthos grunted gruffly, shifting his stance in the blistering heat. 

 

†††

 

“Runt!”

Athos almost flinched at Vincent’s loud intrusion, though instead he simply sharped his glare, in the hopes that the blonde Gascon would look over and cut himself upon it. Somehow d’Artagnan’s childhood friend had gone from a simple annoyance to an absolute thorn in Athos’ side, all in the span of twenty-four hours. Not only was he brash and unapologetically loud and crass, his influence over d’Artagnan was terribly infectious.

They had not been back at the garrison for half an hour before the blundering oaf had torn though the courtyard, demanding his dear friend once more with the promise of fine wine and woman. Or – judging by the state of Vincent’s coat and the lightness of his coin purse – horrid wine and diseased women.

Of course d’Artagnan had not blinked an eye at these requests and set about to leave with Vincent for another night of heavy drinking.

However Athos gripped d’Artagnan’s shoulder, stopping the boy in his tracks.

“You aren’t seriously going to the tavern, are you?” Athos uttered quietly so that just d’Artagnan could hear.

“Why not?”

“Yeah ‘Thos why not?” Vincent appeared beside d’Artagnan in an instant, slipping his arm around the boy’s shoulder, brushing off Athos’ hand.

“That is not my name,” Athos growled at Vincent with a cold expression.

“Isn’t it?” Vincent frowned in a curious fashion, “but that’s what d’Artagnan calls you…”

“No it isn’t,” d’Artagnan correctly instantly, shaking his head for good measure.  

“It is when your drunk, it's ‘Thos this, ‘Thos that,” Vincent jibed and then paused in thought for a brief moment, “actually, to be honest I wasn’t sure if you were talking about _that_ ‘Thos, or _that_ one…” Vincent pointed to Athos and Porthos in turn.

Athos decided to utterly ignore Vincent's comments, even though a small part of him triumphed in the fact that Vincent seemed jealous of them. 

“You just spent the better half of the day with your head in the King’s rose bushes,” Athos growled lowly at d'Artagnan, “why on Earth would you wish to repeat that?”   

“Can’t handle your wine eh?” Vincent snorted, “Wow and I thought musketeers were supposed to be tough?”

“I’m coming,” d'Artagnan told Vincent sharply. 

“Brilliant, what about you _A-_ thos?” Vincent stretched out his name in an utterly patronising manner. Due to the height different, Vincent was easily able to stare down at Athos, making the shorter man’s fury rise further.

“We would be honoured,” Aramis accepted the invitation humbly before Athos could utter further insult.

“Would we…?” Porthos frowned as he muttered under his breath in a heavily sceptical tone. He was not loud enough for Vincent and d’Artagnan to hear, Athos and Aramis could, which caused the latter to sharply elbow Porthos in the ribs.

“You two go ahead, we’ll meet you at the Rising Sun.” Aramis told the two Gascons with a smile. 

“Uh, great,” Vincent nodded, pulling d’Artagnan along merrily, beginning to dramatically retell the wondrous day he had had in Paris.

“Want me to punch ‘im?” Porthos growled menacingly as he and Athos watched Vincent playfully drag d’Artagnan out of the garrison courtyard.

“ _Be nice_ ,” Aramis scolded, “the both of you, d’Artagnan has been kind enough to invite us the least you could do is be considerate to his childhood friend.”

“D’Artagnan didn’t invite us, _Vincent_ did.” Athos pointed out in a slow drawl.

“My point still stands,” Aramis told him, “Athos, you are a dear friend to me, but you’re an intimidating arse, you’re also antisocial and a complete unaccommodating bastard at times. You need to accept that d’Artagnan can chose his own friends, regardless of what you think of them. Besides, isn’t there some idiom, _any friend of my brother’s, is a friend of mine_?” 

“I’ve never heard that, but it sounds idiotic,” Athos uttered coolly, “why would I wish to be friends with your friends?” 

“Probably why it’s called an ‘idiot’.” Porthos shrugged nonchalantly.

“ _Idiom_ , Porthos, honestly,” Aramis sighed wearily.  

“Hang on, when are we _ever_ nice to people’s friends?” Porthos crinkled his forehead in confusion.

“Are we not always nice to friends of ours?” Aramis replied in an optimistic way.

“What friends…?” Athos wondered honestly. 

“You stabbed my friend,” Porthos noted to Aramis, speaking of the incident with Charon in the Court of Miracles. 

“Ah, yes, that is true…” Aramis creased his brow slightly, as he bit the bottom of his lip awkwardly. Technically it had been an accident, but more along the lines of an accidently on-purpose accident as Charon had been about to – quite literally – stab Porthos in the back. 

“Though we did put your friend under house arrest and had him bound in ropes for the majority of his enchanting visit. I’m also pretty sure d’Artagnan punched him in the face.” Porthos relayed thoughtfully.

“Right…” Aramis noted in a none too comforted tone.

“Are we counting Milady as a friend of yours?” Porthos frowned as he turned to Athos.

“Let’s not,” Athos gave Porthos a warning glare, silently commanding him to drop the subject instantly. 

“Alright!” Aramis called out in frustration, silencing the two, “it appears we are the least accommodating men in Paris, but can we please just agree to be pleasant this evening? For d’Artagnan’s sake?”

Both Athos and Porthos grunted in begrudged acceptance as they began to make their way towards the garrison’s exit.

“Who knows, perhaps you may even end up enjoying yourself.” 

†††

  

The tavern was not but four blocks from the garrison. It was a backwards, dirty establishment that seemed to horde darkness and grime as it were a fleeting luxury. They had easily caught up to d’Artagnan and Vincent along the road so they all walked in together, their eyes adjusting to the abyss-like interior with only a handful of candles lighting the dank basement-esque room.

 “Vincent!” the tavern owner smiled brightly at the blonde Gascon, waving his arms excitedly in welcome.

“He makes friends quickly…” Porthos sneered, giving the blonde a sharp suspicious glare as the owner of the table gave Vincent a warm hug. 

“Ha, I love Paris,” Vincent laughed unabashedly, “visit a tavern twice and you are welcomed as an old friend!”

“Unless your Athos,” Porthos snorted, “Took the barmaid near six months to get his order right.” 

“Perhaps I’m just a little more memorable,” Vincent beamed wide, making Athos wish he had taken up Porthos’ offer to punch the smug Gascon.

“To be fair, she was an idiot…” Aramis added. 

“True, but she had really great – “ Porthos went to gesture his words with his hands but was promptly cut off.

“Oh look, there’s a table,” Aramis interrupted with a forced smile, pushing d’Artagnan and Vincent towards, turning back his head to give Porthos an odd look of discouragement.

“Well isn’t this nice,” Aramis smiled as they sat down at the table. They had all lulled into an uncomfortable silence once seated, no one wished to be the one to break it. 

Athos peered around the room in a bored fashion until he caught the look upon Aramis’ face. The musketeer appeared to be trying to convey the subtle – or in this case _not_ so subtle – message that he wanted Athos to buy them all wine as means of a piece offering between him and Vincent.

“I’ll buy wine.” Athos grunted as he stood up, causing Aramis to smile brightly in triumph.

“Good idea Athos,” Aramis nodded, with a thankful look.

“Thanks, my friend, you are too kind,” Vincent beamed widely.

“We’re not friends.” Athos supplied with a deadpanned glare, earning himself a rib in the gut from Aramis. “That was being nice.” Athos informed Aramis before standing up to leave and retrieve the wine.

This task took little effort. He ordered the best they had, d’Artagnan’s stomach would not last long on the tavern’s cheapest. If the boy was going to be an idiot, he might as well be an idiot with decent taste. Even still, a place such as this did not carry anything decent so, along with the wine, he ordered several baguettes and dinner for the table. Giving something to match the alcohol might slow down Vincent’s drinking and subsequently d’Artagnan’s. After collecting the bottles, Athos returned to the table and poured out the dark alcohol.

“This is beautiful wine, A-thos,” Vincent complimented the musketeer, with such a conceited tone, that it almost sound as if he were mocking him. 

“Mhm,” Athos retorted, pouring himself a glass.

Athos watched as d’Artagnan winced at taste of the wine, clearly not enjoying the burning sensation of a second night’s tavern dwelling. 

The food was brought over promptly. The bread was presented with some sort of cheese, he could not be completely certain.

“Have some food,” Athos told the young musketeer, pushing the bowl of stew towards him. 

“Ugh, there is no way I’m eating that,” d’Artagnan crinkled his nose in disgust, making a repelled expression with his mouth.

“Eat some food, d’Artagnan,” Athos sighed, knowing that the boy needed something in his stomach if he was to continue drinking, especially after the trauma d’Artagnan had put it through that afternoon. D’Artagnan also really had to get over this abhorred attitude to certain foods – he was skin and bones already, and one did not always have the luxury of choice.   

“Pfft, he’s not gonna eat it,” Vincent laughed, eying the food suspiciously, “Charlie’s pretty choosy when it come to food…”

“You should eat it,” Athos replied simply, not wishing to push the issue, but it had seemed to grow into a battle of wills between him and Vincent. Especially if the all-knowingly glint in the blonde Gascon’s eye was anything to go on. This was a contest pure and simple. 

“I wouldn’t, looks gross,” Vincent snubbed the stew, recoiling visibly. 

“D’Artagnan…”Athos sighed with tired tone. 

“Looks like papa Athos has arrived.” Vincent chuckled wickedly with a knowing glint in his eye. 

“What on Earth are you talking about?” Athos demanded scathingly. 

“Charlie’s a big boy, he can make his own decisions. He doesn’t need you to hold his hand.”

“ _Vincent_ ,” d’Artagnan spoke for the first time, putting an end to the duelling egos at the table.

The silence that fell over the table was excruciatingly painful for all involved.

“Don’t eat it if you don’t want it,” Athos sighed, suddenly realising how childish and foolhardy he was being in his attempts to gain the upper hand against Vincent.

“I, um,” d’Artagnan looked between Athos and Vincent for a moment, “I might just have some bread.” He muttered quietly as he reached across the table to break off a portion for himself.

Vincent’s triumphant victory grin curdled Athos’ blood. Bloody smug bastard.

The next half an hour past in almost silence. D’Artagnan ate small portions of bread, sipping wine occasionally but clearly not enjoying the flavour. The rest had sat in awkward muteness, with no one wishing to break it until Vincent announced:

“What say you to another round of drinks, Runt?” he nudged the young musketeer in playful jeer. “Can you handle it? Or do you wish to admit defeat?”

“Another round it is,” d’Artagnan nodded his head sluggishly as he pushed himself up out of the chair, wobbling a little at the rush of blood that clearly had just shot up into his head. The boy was clearly dizzy and his movement were slowed and sluggish, if he pushed himself any further in this ridiculous fashion, d’Artagnan would spent a second day with his head in the rose bushes.

“How about we call it a night?” Athos observed cautiously, watching at d’Artagnan swayed a little in his stance, needing to hold onto the edge of the table in order to fully stable himself. 

D’Artagnan had never been much of a drinker. Sure, he partook in celebrations with the others now and again but never to over indulge.  

“I’Mm fine,” d’Artagnan grunted, pushing off Athos’ hand defensively, before staggering over to the bar.

“He can’t help himself,” Vincent smirked to himself with a low chuckle, “that one’s on the house boys, any more will cost you.”

“Any more of _what_ exactly…?” Athos asked slowly so that Vincent could grasp the tone he used as well as words. Though apparently neither fazed the flippant blonde.

“Just little things I’ve noticed over the years, Runt can never refuse a challenge, great fun if you want to see him throw himself out a tree or dive into an ice covered lake.”

“He did those things?” Aramis frowned, meeting Athos and Porthos’ gazes with a concerned stare.

“Oh, aye, and more, Charlie really can’t help himself, he’s a proud stubborn little bastard, you challenge him and he’ll do it.”

By now, Athos was well aware of the young Gascon’s prideful streak, however this was a completely different circumstance that simple pride.

“Here, I’ll show you…” Vincent chuckled deviously as d’Artagnan made his way back to the table juggling two bottles across the crowded room. 

“Hey Runt, _how high_ is the roof of this tavern, would you say?” Vincent asked, feigning innocence as d’Artagnan sat back down, placing the wine upon the table. 

“No, Vince, we’re not playing that game, I’m not a child anymore,” d’Artagnan returned in a standoffish manner, his cheek slightly flushed with either anger or embarrassment. 

“Come on, do for old times, _how high is the roof_ , Runt?"  

“No, Vincent.” D’Artagnan supplied a snappish reply,

“Come on –”

“He said no,” Porthos cut in with a tightly clenched jaw.

“You’ve become so boring since moving to Paris,” Vincent scowled darkly, though his mood was not dampened for long as he suddenly brought forth a deck of cards from the pockets of his coat and placed them upon the table.  

“Game of kings, anyone?”

The smile of Porthos' face was so sinfully elated that the devil himself would have sold his soul for the secret of the musketeer's delight. However, Aramis also caught this smile and glared at the larger musketeer scathingly for even considering it. 

'Don't you dare…' Aramis mouthed silently at Porthos, utterly destroying the other man's joyful mood. 

 

†††

 

“Well that went well…” Aramis sighed as they walked back through Paris’ darkly lit streets.

The night had been called to an end when d’Artagnan had fallen asleep in his chair, much to Vincent’s amusement, who promised to tease the boy mercilessly for the act. However a harsh glare for each of the conscious musketeers soon quietened the blonde Gascon’s enthusiasm. As they had shuffled the young Gascon, his coin purse had fallen upon the ground, giving Athos further reason to be furious at the sly blonde Gascon. Before that week had begun, d’Artagnan had been near bragging of the ample sum in his pocket, though they had all told him to keep this quiet – especially on the street. But now, the leather purse was almost empty, clearly Vincent had not emptied his own pockets for the long evenings of drinks and food he had been participating in.

“You and I have a very different meaning of the word ‘well’…” Athos uttered gruffly as he and Porthos shared d’Artagnan’s sleeping dead-weight between them.

“I was being facetious, it went terribly.” Aramis shot back.

“Truly,” Porthos nodded wearily, failing to hold back a wide yawn.

“Let’s just get this one to bed.” Athos sighed, nodding towards d’Artagnan, “I am in need of my own.”

 

†††

 

“ _Come on_!” Athos could here Vincent’s snide jeering even through the heavy wooden door to Tréville’s office. Well at the very least, it did sound like they were having a merry time out there, if the rumble of cheering was anything to go on. 

The three had been called into Tréville's office to offer the King's thanks for their attendance at the parade yesterday. Also the Captain had requested their presence to work out why the King had only mentioned the presence of three musketeers when Tréville had sent four. 

This led to a great deal of fumbling from Aramis through one the of worst constructed lies Athos had ever had to sit through. It was always painful experience when Aramis had to lie, perhaps it was his deeply religious nature that hindered him or perhaps he was simply terrible at it. Whatever the reason, Aramis always came off as a bumbling idiot when attempting to construct a lie. 

However as luck would have it, the noise from the courtyard below had grown to such a roar that the Captain no longer cared for Aramis' poorly weaved story. 

“What the devil is going on out there?” Tréville snapped as he swung open the door, storming out onto the balcony with a trio of musketeer by his heels.

 “D’Artagnan!” Athos’ eye grew wide, legs frozen in place as he saw the Gascon boy balancing upon the top of the stair railing, his hands out wide to steady himself as he feet rocked slightly upon the thin perch. 

“What are you doing up there?” Aramis creased his brow in concern and confusion. 

“Hey, watch this!” d’Artagnan smiled cheekily, crouching his knees slightly as he seemed to be preparing himself for something.

“What are yo –?” Athos asked but cut himself off as d’Artagnan suddenly propelled himself backwards, flipping backwards over himself in a seemingly effortless display that was oddly balletic in poise and gracefulness.

The slight of d’Artagnan disappearing off the railing made Athos’ knees weaken slightly, his heart thudded against his chest painfully.

“Holy…” Aramis breathed out in shock and awe. 

“Ta dah!” Athos heard the idiot musketeer below announce excitedly as the crowd of musketeers cheered around him.

“Woah,” Porthos noted with a wide-eyed expression, nodding in an impressed fashion.

 “You _fool_!” Athos growled as he stormed down the stairs and up to the excited boy, pushing past the thick crowd of cheering musketeers. “You could have broken your neck!” 

“But I didn’t,” d’Artagnan shrugged nonchalantly, dusting off the grime from the roof off his hands.

“Yeah, Runt’s done it loads of times,” Vincent laughed, “though never that high, well done!” the broad blonde slapped d’Artagnan’s back enthusiastically in congratulations. “This does mean you’ll have to beat it next time!” 

“There will be no next time,” Athos snapped, still trying to work off the adrenaline that coursed throughout his body. 

“Come off it,” d’Artagnan scoffed, “I’m fine, it was just –“ he froze the moment he saw the Captain standing beside Athos, both with twin unimpressed expressions.

“A clear display of recklessness and idiocy?” Tréville finished d’Artagnan’s sentence with a cautioning tone. 

“True but it was completely spectacular!” Vincent appeared by the Captain’s side, enthusiasm and excitement oozing from his entire body.

“Who the hell are you?” Tréville peered at the tall blonde suspiciously.

“Vincent Masson,” the blonde gave a dramatic bow to accompany his grand introduction. “Uh, _sir_.”

“This is a Musketeer’s garrison, son,” Tréville levelled the taller man with a scornful glare, one that frequently terrified new recruits and those who displeased the Captain.  

“Yes, it’s lovely –“ 

“Are you a musketeer?” The Captain snapped instantly, not caring for simple pleasantries and chitchat. 

“No?” 

“Then get the hell out of here.” Tréville ordered forcefully, making his stance clear on the matter.

“Got it.” Vincent nodded sharply before ducking away into the crowds.

“And you,” Tréville turned his attentions back upon the young musketeers before him, “if you wanted to be a dancer you should have joined a carnival. This is a garrison, not a gypsy convoy.” 

“Sorry sir,” d’Artagnan bit his lip nervously under the anger of the Captain.  

“Stable duty, tomorrow morning, don’t be late.” Tréville ordered gruffly before making his leave. 

“Yessir.” d'Artagnan obliged submissively. 

"That was stupid and you know it." Athos grumbled as the Captain left. 

"Pretty fantastic though," Porthos beamed brightly, "how long have you been able to do that?" 

"Since I was a little kid," d'Artagnan smiled meekly under the praise, clearly still well aware of Athos' disdainful glare. 

"Fascinating, you're quite good." Aramis agreed with an awestruck nod. 

"You two praising the boy completely undermines my attempts at reprimanding him…" Athos glared, though the worry in his chest had all but fled, along with his anger. 

"Apologies," Aramis smiled brightly as if sensing Athos' calmness, "we'll leave you to it."

"Sorry," d'Artagnan muttered as Porthos and Aramis headed off into the garrison together, nervous under the intense gaze of the man before him. 

Athos sighed, feeling weary about always being the one who was left to reprimand the boy on his idiotic choices. He was simply going to let it slide before he noticed the terrible state of the boy's boots. They were completely dilapidated with holes and gashes, it was a wonder d'Artagnan could walk in them let alone balance upon the stair railings in them. 

“What on Earth have you done to your boots?”

“Ugh, yeah, I –“ d'Artagnan stumbled over an excuse, but Athos saw through it. 

“Buy some new boots.”

“Right, umm,” d’Artagnan paused as he shifted awkwardly, shuffling his feet slightly in the dirt as he starred down at them.

Athos sighed as he took the liberty of assessing the boy’s coin purse from affair. It clearly looked no lighter than it had the previous evening, nor would its contents cover the cost of a new pair of boots – not if the boy wanted to continue eating for the next week. 

Without a word, Athos withdrew a small handful of coins from his own purse. Taking d’Artagnan’s hand, Athos placed them into the boy’s palm.

“No, Athos, I can buy – “ 

“You can repay me by not doing any more idiotic stunts.” Athos kept a level gaze with the younger musketeer, making it clear that this was not a charity offering but a promise.

"I can try," d'Artagnan promised with a small smile. 

†††

 

“Have you seen d’Artagnan this morning?” Porthos wonder aloud as he walked up their usual table in the courtyard. Thankfully day and previous evening had been completely uneventful. D'Artagnan had made some comment in passing that he was going to see Constance in the afternoon, so the others had waved him off with not a word about it. 

“I thought he was helping Jacques with the horses?” Athos looked up slowly from his apple with a tight frown.

“That’s where he’s meant to be,” Aramis chimed in, slicing a piece of his own apple with a thin knife. “Apparently he didn’t show,” he added with a slight shrug. “My guess is he slept through the morning bells…”

“Nah, I just came from his rooms, he’s not there.” Porthos informed them, sounding a touch concerned.

“He had better not be with that _bloody Gascon_ ,” Athos growled, feeling his apple crush in his hands slightly at the tight grip.

“Is that jealousy I hear?” Aramis smirked wickedly in Athos’ direction, causing the other man’s scowl to darken.

“Vincent is a terrible influence, his very presence in Paris is unwelcome and overstayed.”

“He is a stranger to the city and dear friend of d’Artagnan’s, surely that is enough to give him the benefit of the doubt?”

“I don’t like ‘im,” Porthos sniffed with a low snarl, crossing his arms across his chest.

“You don’t like that he beat you at kings.”

“ _He cheated_.” Porthos growled. 

“What a hypocrite you are,” Aramis scolded lightly.

“I only cheat people I don’t like,” Porthos rebutted, and though he made a fair point, Athos knew that the larger man would have tried to swindle money from Vincent if Aramis had not given them strict instructions to ‘be nice’.

“Which is _everyone_ ,” Aramis shot back with a wryly stare before turning back to Athos, “d’Artagnan is a young man with a vast city to explore, we must learn to accept that there will be times he does not want to be weighed down by our dreary company.”

“Right up until that idiot gets the boy killed.”

“Athos, be that as it may, there are some things d’Artagnan must learn on his own, pushing him to see your view will only drive a wedge between the two of you.” Aramis informed the brooding musketeer. "Let us see what the Captain has in store for us this morning, I'll ask Serge to keep an eye out for our wayward little Gascon." 

Athos nodded stiffly in reply as he pushed himself up from the table, following Porthos up the staircase. 

“Captain’s at the Palace if your looking for him,” Henri informed them as he strolled across the courtyard, causing the three to pause upon the stairs. “Left in a hurry early this morning, he was rather furious.”

“Did he say what for?” Aramis inquired curiously.

“Oh yeah, apparently d’Artagnan’s at the Châtelet for duelling.” Henri told them simply, causing Aramis to duck his head and Athos to growl lowly under his breath.

“Probably should have led with that,” Aramis told Henri meekly, wincing at Athos’ rising temper.

 “You still think Vincent should stay?” Athos snarled at Aramis as they made their way back down the stairs about to ready his horse to charge up to the Palace, however as he took the last step to the ground, he realised his efforts would not be necessary. 

“Your commission lies upon a knife’s edge, d’Artagnan,” Tréville snarled with a quiet fury that deafened all who heard as he stormed into the garrison, d'Artagnan dogging his heels. “One more fool-hardy mistake and you can pack your things for Gascony.”

“Yessir,” d’Artagnan uttered submissively, his head ducked down in shame, hiding the tears forming in his eyes. The boy looked rough from his night in the Châtelet; hair an unkempt mess, dark circles under his eye as a clear indication of a sleepless night. 

 Dismissing d’Artagnan, the Captain walked directly up to the trio standing watch. Tréville silently pulled Athos aside as the other two went to assess d’Artagnan's ruggard state.

“The King believes the duel was staged in order to gain required information.” Tréville muttered lowly to Athos.

“Thank you,” Athos nodded reverently. It was not the first time Athos had been thankful that Tréville was their Captain and not another. Most Captain’s would chose to make an example out of a situation like this.

“I don’t know what the hell has gotten into that boy, but find out and fix it.” The Captain told him gruffly, “he may be one of my most promising recruits, but I will not tolerate insubordination in my garrison.”

“Yes sir,” Athos accepted with a clipped tone as the Captain dismissed him with a nod, walking towards the stairs to his quarters. 

“There you are!” Vincent exclaimed as he came into the garrison courtyard, running up to d’Artagnan with a beaming smile upon his face. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, had to turn over most of Paris!”

The very sound of the blonde Gascon’s voice had Athos’ teeth grinding and his knuckles whitening.

“He’s been at the Châtelet,” Porthos informed Vincent with a stony glare, clearly he placed the blame at the blonde’s feet the same as Athos did.

“Well I did tell you not to fight those men,” Vincent chuckled scornfully, sounding a little patronising with his tone. 

“No you didn’t, you _pushed me into them_ and then called bloody murder until the Red Guards showed up!” D’Artagnan snapped, his temper flaring up wildly from the lack of sleep and frustration. 

“You’re a musketeer, I thought you could handle it!” Vincent held his ground however, his own temper being to rise.

“I was handling it, until you brought the Red Guards over.” D'Artagnan growled, tossing his light blue cloak upon the table with a frustrated snarl. 

“I think you best leave,” Athos growled menacingly at Vincent, interrupting the spat between the two Gascons.

 “I got this Athos, I don’t need your help.” D’Artagnan barked, putting a hand up to Athos to stop him from interrupting them further.

“ _Leave_ ,” Athos ignored d’Artagnan’s request, looking over him at the blonde Gascon behind. “Before Tréville sees you and punishes you for sulking around the garrison." 

“I’ll see you around, d’Artagnan,” Vincent gave his friend a quick nod, before darting across to the archway. 

“That is none of your business,” d’Artagnan growled the moment Vincent was gone from sigh. “Why didn’t you let me handle it?” 

“Because I’ve witnessed how you’ve been ‘handling it’ for the past few days now,” Athos retorted shortly, “I felt it time I stepped in.” 

“What?” d’Artagnan gapped in disbelief.

“Go to bed d’Artagnan,” Athos sighed, really not wanting to have this discussion with an overtired, three-day-hung-over, brooding Gascon.

Holding a glare with the boy for a few moments, Athos was about to push it further, before d’Artagnan sighed heavily and walked off towards his room.

"I'll keep an eye on 'im," Porthos mumbled as he followed after d'Artagnan.  

“If this is what parenthood is like, I am truly frightened at the idea…” Aramis noted as he watched d’Artagnan skulk off in a dark mood. 

“If that buffoon even thinks about walking into this garrison again, I will kill him myself.” Athos threatened, though his tone sold is as a promise.

“Athos, he’s just a little challenging, he’s still getting used to Paris life.” Aramis sighed, “do you remember your first week in Paris?”

Clearly Aramis was trying to make some point, but Athos was hearing none of it, choosing to ignore his question entirely. 

“The punishment for illegal duelling is execution, do you know how close d'Artagnan came to meeting that fate?” Athos snarled, his anger boiling under the heat of the sun and the growing frustration in his heart. 

“We duel all the time,” Aramis corrected calmly.

“Yes, _we_ , _us_ , not just him. Not alone.” Athos growled back, feeling the frustration and anger rise up within him.

“Tréville would never see the boy executed for a fool’s error.” Aramis tried once again to be the voice of reason and rationality.

“It still does not excuse his behaviour, Vincent is ruining d’Artagnan’s prospects in this city.” 

“Athos, it’s only been a few days, Vincent will be gone soon, just let it be," Aramis you’ll end up pushing d’Artagnan away if you involve yourself.”

 “I will not keep ignoring what is right in front of me.” Athos murmured harshly under his breath.

He had ignored the signs of trouble with Thomas. He had disregarded the warnings and Anne’s suspicious manipulations of his young brother. He had be blind to the investigation Thomas conducted and the subsequent reveal of his evidence.

“Vincent does not belong here.”

“Athos –“

“He is an idiotic Gascon farm boy with has no place in the city. He’s a buffoon who scavengers off others like a vulture. He is brash, arrogant and utterly bull-headed, it is truly amazing he does not offend more people than he already does.”

“Is that what you think of me also?” 

“D’Artagnan…” Athos groaned slightly as he heard the young Gascon’s voice behind him – how long had he been standing there? “Go to bed, you need sleep, you look terrible.”

“I came to get my cloak, but instead find you all out here talking about me behind my back,” d’Artagnan pushed, clearly overtired and not thinking straight, allowing his anger to rule his head. 

“Don’t be stu –“ Athos cut himself off as he realised insult the boy would do nothing but anger him further. 

“What? _Stupid?_ Is that what you were going to say?” d’Artagnan clenched his teeth, his anger clear as he glared at the elder musketeer. 

“I was not talking about –“ 

“Don’t lie, I know what you all think of me!” he growled, “Stupid little d’Artagnan who can’t handle himself in the big bad city? _Idiotic_ d’Artagnan has to be kept out of harms way so as not to get a _paper cut_! Brainless d’Artagnan –“

“You know that is not how we see you, do not put false words in my mouth!” Athos growled, knowing exactly who had put those thoughts in d’Artagnan’s head. With each jibe and sharpened word, Vincent had been cutting away at d’Artagnan’s faith in himself and his trust in his brother. “Now calm yourself, you are being foolish.”

“Oh piss off!” d’Artagnan spat petulantly, “I am not child, Athos!” 

“You’re acting like one!” Athos snarled back, ignoring Aramis’ silent warnings against enraging the young Gascon. “Since Vincent came to Paris you have done nothing but ignore your responsibilities and skive off with your little drinking buddy. You are utterly ignoring your training and are fast becoming the worst musketeer in this entire garrison!”

 D’Artagnan’s eyes widened at the Athos’ admission, his mouth slightly agape as the hurtful confession slammed into the young musketeer, clearly only hearing the last few words, ignore all else.

Upon realising the pain he was causing, Athos sighed, going about means of apologising.

However d’Artagnan’s hurt filled expression had morphed into anger once again, tears collecting in his eyes as he threw down the light blue cloak upon the ground.

 “D’Artagnan – “ Athos tried, but the young musketeer simply turned on his heels and fled the courtyard, out into the streets.

 The silence that echoed about the garrison was deafening. Athos was sure he could hear his own heart thudding against his chest as he watch the boy storm away in a flurry of pain and anger. 

“ _Don’t_ say it…” Athos grumbled as he watched Aramis’ expression.

“Not a word,” Aramis raised his hands high in mock surrender.

 

†††

 

D’Artagnan did not return to the garrison for the rest of the day. Clearly he did not wish to be around the other musketeers after the large blow up that had occurred between he and Athos. Porthos had been most annoyed to hear that their plan was to wait for the young Gascon to calm down before going in search of him, though they all knew that d’Artagnan would return to the garrison once his angered thoughts cooled. For even though the boy could be a little brash and hot-headed at times, he always came to his senses eventually.

For now Athos just decided to wait and plan how best to make amends with their wayward brother. Vincent would still have to leave, there was no doubt of that. The blonde was quite clearly poisoning the boy’s mind against them and though this may not be intentional, the effects were apparent. 

As the afternoon slowed to dulling pace, Athos sat at the table alone. Porthos and Aramis had gone to look for the boy, caving as their worries got the better of them. Though it was Athos’ stubbornness and temper that kept him at the table.  

He and d’Artagnan had often come to head on matters, it was the nature of similar spirited men to argue. Though this was the first time d’Artagnan had seemed unawed by Athos, he was disillusioned completely where an almost reverent mentality once was.  

“Athos!”

Athos groaned as the blonde Gascon’s voice violently interrupted his thoughts. He turned to see Vincent rushing up to him. The man looked slightly frazzled and shaky

“What do you want Vincent?” Athos raised a stern brow at the blonde, his mouth tight.

“You are a Comte are you not?” Vincent pushed anxiously, ringing his hands nervously.  

“D’Artagnan told you this?” 

“He didn’t have to, your demeanour told me,” Vincent told him and as Athos gave the blonde Gascon a shrewd glare, he felt the need to continue, “the way you carry yourself, your speech, even the very timbre of your voice tells me you are of a noble home.”

“You’re rather perceptive for a farm boy.”

“It matters not, will you loan me four hundred livre?” 

“Four _hundred_ livre?” Athos gaped, his mind reeling at the unfathomable figure, “even if we were close friends – which we are most definitely not – four hundred livre is a ridiculous sum to ask of me.” 

“Do you have it or not?”

“What is it for?” Athos asked slowly, suspiciously. It was nigh impossible to think of what a Gascon farm boy could so desperately need four-hundred livre for.

“I have found myself in a great deal of debt to a money lender here in Paris –“

“How could you possibly be in debt for four hundred livre?” Athos cried out, “you’ve only been here a _week_!”

“That is not entirely true,” Vincent sighed guiltily, “I have been in Paris for six months now.” The blonde revealed regrettably. “I had nothing when I came to the city and the lenders were kind, at first, they gave me food and a place to stay, showed me cards, wine and the most beautiful of women. But then they began to demand what they were owed, told me to do what ever it took to repay them…"

“So you came to d’Artagnan…” Athos’ gaze turned stone cold.

“Everyone’s knows about the King’s favourite new musketeer. I thought he might have some extra coin he wouldn’t mind sharing with an old friend.” Vincent shrugged.

“How unfortunate for you that d’Artagnan does not even have funds to buy new boots.”

“Yeah, well I found out rather quickly I’d made a mistake, but I was grateful to see the kid again and his protection was great appreciated.” 

“The duel…” Athos groaned, running his hands over his face, “ 

“They have been following me for quite sometime, the kid’s good with a sword, so I used that to my advantage.”

“I’m sorry, do not have four hundred livre to give you.” Athos supplied, though in truth he was not exactly sorry, the idiot have brought it upon himself.  

“Please, anything will be better than nothing, do you have one hundred? Fifty? I beg of you please see mercy!” 

“Your failings as a man are no concern of mine.” Athos brushed off, turning away from the blonde Gascon as means to physically showing he was done with the conversation.

“Please, they will kill d’Artagnan if I do not!” Vincent exclaimed, causing Athos to freeze instantly in the tracks.

“What?” The musketeer growled as he span to face the paling Gascon, a murderous fury in his eyes. Athos could feel his heart leap to his throat, his hands gripping Vincent’s sleeves dangerously. 

“The money lenders grew impatient, one of them had seen me about the city with d’Artagnan and took him as incentive.”

Athos growled lowly. If Vincent was here with him that meant the blonde Gascon had left d’Artagnan alone with his captors.

“How many?” Athos asked strategically, if only a few he could handle it himself, depending on d’Artagnan’s state the boy would no doubt he able to take one or two down, any more than that would require a little help.

“I told you, four hu – “

“ _Men_ , how many men does this lender surround himself with?”

“Twelve,” Vincent whimpered, “though there could be more, I have seen twelve different faces by his side.”

 _Right_ , Athos sighed mentally, gaging his best option. Twelve was manageable if he could separate them, divide and conquer as it were. However that would require a great deal of stealth and planning, none of which he had time to prepare for. However he didn't need to wait long to devise a more sound plan as he saw Porthos and Aramis walking back into the garrison. They looked slightly disappointed, they had obviously been unsuccessful in their search efforts - d'Artagnan would not be found on the streets. 

Allowing them no time to get settled, Athos stormed up to them,

"We couldn't find -" Aramis started to explain, though he was quickly cut off by Athos. 

"I know where he is." 

With nothing more upon the subject the two musketeers nodded and promptly followed Athos out of the garrison. It was only after a minute or so, however, that they realised their trio was in fact a quartet. 

"What's he doing here?" Porthos grunted as he nodded his head towards Vincent trailing along beside them. 

"I'm the one that knows where Charlie is," 

 "That's because he is the coward who threw him to the wolves in order to save his own skin," Athos spat as walked with fevered determination. He was still following Vincent's lead in terms of directions, but anyone who saw them would no doubt see Athos as the clear leader.  

"After we get him back, you better start running farm boy," Porthos showed his teeth as he snarled at the blonde Gascon, 

“That kid is like a brother to me, we grew up together, I would never do anything to hurt him!” Vincent beseeched, though the musketeers before him were deaf to his pleas for forgiveness.

“Oh of course not,” Porthos growled with a sarcastic flare, “you only bullied him into suicidal acts for your own amusement, what a loving brother you are.”

 Suddenly, Vincent halted at the intersection of two crossing streets. 

"Where?" Athos demanded curtly.  

“There,” Vincent pointed at the large house at the end of the street, “that is where they have him.”

Wasting no time, Athos charged forth down the street, allowing the others to follow. Although this time there were only three of them. 

"Coward," Porthos muttered darkly as he noticed Vincent hanging around the end of the street nervously. 

Aramis nodded in agreement, though said nothing further. 

“After you?” Athos nodded respectfully at Porthos, gesturing at the large wooden door. The house looked completely ordinary from the outside, the owner clearly had once had money, though years of neglect had allowed the exterior to fade slightly. 

“Shall I knock?” Porthos wondered with a wicked grin.

“How polite you are.” Aramis beamed as he pulled forth his sword from its sheath, preparing himself for the onslaught that lay in wait behind the door.

“I do try.” Porthos retorted with a sly smirk as he raised his foot and kicked the door in. Though it had been made of a thick wood, years of rot and wear caused it to splinter off its hinges under the force of Porthos’ blow.

With the door in pieces upon the floor, the seconds that followed were slightly anti-climatic. The trio carefully crossed the house's threshold, hands poised and ready in case there were assailants that lay in wait in the long shadows that seemed to stretch the length of the corridors. 

"Perhaps we have the wrong place?" Aramis wondered softly as they moved throughout the house delicately.

A muffled noise from behind the far door, alerted Athos to the presence behind it. Alerting the others with a short whistle, Athos stood poised before the door, his hand upon the handle apprehensively, waiting for the others to assume their positions.  

Feeling the presence of Aramis and Porthos at his back, Athos swung open the door violently and stepped into the room. There, Athos found the house's occupants with ease. Ten men sat around a large table starring up at the three intruders to their home. 

“I am looking for…” Athos paused, suddenly realising in all the chaos and anxiety he had never learnt the name of this mysterious moneylender Vincent was so indebted to, “…the owner of this residence.” He concluded, though he had utterly lost his commanding tone towards the end of the sentence. 

“Do you not even know his name?” Aramis frowned a little at Athos' fumble. 

“I never caught it,” Athos shrugged slightly, unfazed by the blunder. 

“I am Pierre Héron,” a tall thin man stepped forward. He was handsome with the sort of effortless charm women flocked towards. Héron looked slightly sickly, slick oiled grey and white hair clung in patched upon an almost balding skull and a large Roman nose hanging off his face, gave him the appearance of the bird that he took his name from. “To what do I owe the pleasure of his Majesty's finest?"  

“Where is d’Artagnan?” Athos stepped forward, his hand upon the hilt of his sword as means of a subtle threat towards those around them.

“Who?” Héron frowned, looking genuinely confused by the mention of the young musketeer.

“That’s that lad’s name, the grumpy one,” one man informed his employer, “The Gascon’s little friend.”

“Oh you are here to settle his debt?” Héron smiled brightly as if he were talking to old friends. “I must say, _musketeers indeed_. Vincent must have some friends in high places.”

“Vincent can settle his own debts, we’re here for d’Artagnan.” Athos stated clearly, he was not here to bail out that cowardly wretch. Vincent would have to be a man and deal with his problems himself. 

“Seems we have a slight problem, gentlemen,” Héron sighed with faked disappointment. “See that boy must remain with me until I am payed.”

In that moment, the remaining men at the table stood up, bearing their weapons as a clear sign of a threat. 

“In that case, we do have a problem.” Athos’ stare turned cold as he took in a breath, surveying the room within a second. Unsheathing his rapier effortlessly, he mentally prepared for the oncoming storm. 

Aramis started the fight with a blast from his pistol, quickly felling an approaching man. It was far too close quarters to load and fire his arquebus, though that did not stop him using it to slam it into the unfortunate kneecaps of an approaching assailant. This brought the man down instantly, allowing Aramis to knock him out cold, slamming the butt of his gun into the man’s head.

Athos attempted to divide the men in thirds, pushing his way past two men easily before engaging the men behind them, leaving Aramis and Porthos to deal with the men closer to the door. 

The men upon them were clearly not musketeers, or even Red Guards. Though they did have some skill with the swords they wielded, any blows they dealt seemed to be more due to luck than their abilities. 

Porthos had apparently begun to improvise, using chairs to fell the assailants to the ground, though the men had quickly learnt to avoid Porthos and seemed to pick off Aramis as the easier target. 

“Porthos!” Athos called out as he saw four men backing Aramis into a corner, with two men of his own to deal with, Athos would not be able to make it across the room to prevent anything.  

“Already on it!” Porthos laughed as he kicked a man to the floor, reaching out with his rapier to slash the unprotected back of one of the men crowding Aramis.

Laughing in victory, Porthos did not see the blade until it met flesh, slicing across the side of his throat as the larger musketeer gasped against the burning pain.  

“Porthos!” Aramis cried out in fury, alerting Athos’ attention instantly. Athos turned to see Porthos still fighting with one hand gripping his neck tight, blood pooled between the larger musketeer’s fingers. From this angle, Athos could not see if the wound was serious or not, all he could see was blood upon Porthos' hand and a worried and anxious Aramis laying waste to any and all that stood between him and Porthos. 

Once Porthos had been injured, the battle was over within a few minutes. The carnage of the room was minimal, especially given the number of men that had charged them. Though most were just unconscious, there were a few that would never walk out of this room - mainly those who had tried to engage Aramis after Porthos had been wounded. 

As Aramis saw to Porthos' injuries, Athos took the liberty of confronting Héron, kicking the bird-like man to the floor with little effort. 

“What do you want?” Héron whimpered under Athos’ boot, his eyes wide and fearful of the tip of the musketeer’s sword at his throat. “ _Please_.”

“D’Artagnan,” Athos asked simply, “where is he?” 

“Basement!” Héron yelped meekly, a shaking hand pointing towards a door in the far corner.

"Is he hurt?" Athos growled, edging the blade closer to the man's jugular. 

"No! He's fine, we did not touch him." Héron cried out desperately. 

Athos looked over the cowardly man at his feet for a brief moment, debating the need to kill him or not. Though in the end he decided against it, let the man suffer in his wretched life. Ignoring the sobbing thanks from the man upon the floor, Athos walked over the door Héron had pointed to, suddenly feeling his anxiety rise once more. Was d'Artagnan still angry with him? Was he hurt? And if so, how badly? 

“Get off,” Porthos muttered, alerting Athos' attention for a moment. Porthos slapped away Aramis’ prying hand as the shorter man fretted over the weeping gash upon his neck. “It’s fine, stop fussing.”

“It may require stitching,” Aramis told him with a frown, “might scar,” he added biting his bottom lip slightly as he examined the oozing wound.  

 “I’ll add it to my collection.” Porthos grinned smugly, “Women love a man with scars.”

 Aramis smirked a little at this, though his worry was still clear, pulling a piece of clean cloth from his doublet, tucked in safe in case of need, and applied it upon Porthos’ gash.

Athos flickered his gaze back towards Aramis, raising silent concern for Aramis’ grumbling patient.

“I’m fine,” Porthos sighed with a touch of annoyance, catching the looks between the two musketeers. “Go rescue our little damsel.”

 “I’d like to see you call him that to his face,” Aramis challenged with a wicked grin.

“What and get a nice shiner to match my neck?” Porthos snorted, giving Aramis a knowing stare. “I may not be smart but I know there are two types of people in life you don’t insult; women and Gascons." 

“Guess I should have abided by that rule this morning…” Athos muttered, stuck stoic before the door to the basement, willing his hands to open the door but finding them frozen by his side.

“He may be stubborn, but there is not doubt that he loves you dearly, I’m sure he’s already forgiven the entire thing.” Aramis told him gently.

“I know, I am stalling, I am simply dreading what will happen once I open the door.”

“No, you’re right, he’s probably dead, let’s leave then shall we?” Aramis clapped his hands together in a facetious display, pretending to leave.

To this Athos sent the coldest of glares in the musketeer’s direction, his teeth clenched tight to convey his silent fury.

“Athos, go talk to him.”

Feeling there was no other option, Athos nodded and opened the door, grabbing the ring of glinting keys upon the hook next to it, apprehensive of what he would find. 

 

†††

 

 

The cellar was cold and damp and horrid. Water puddled upon the floor, though its source unclear.  A musty smell clung to the walls making the room feel smaller than it was, heavy with thick air.

The sharp sound of chain’s clinking alerted Athos’ attention instantly to the far wall, where a shard of light from the top window illuminated a hunched figure. The figure was unmistakably d’Artagnan. Athos would recognise that mop of dark hair and those shoulders in a crowd of thousands.

The young Gascon sat leaning against the wall, his head bowed down looking at his hands that were hidden in his lap. From this angle, Athos could not tell whether the boy was conscious or not. D’Artagnan’s shoulder’s rose and fell with a slight wince to his breath, though Athos wasn’t sure whether this was simply due to his crouched position or if was due to some hidden injury.

“D’Artagnan?” Athos waited anxiously with bated breath as he stepped towards the boy, eyes watching him carefully.

“ _Go away_ ,” d’Artagnan grumbled, sounding rather frustrated, though he did not look up.

Athos took in a silent breath of relief as d’Artagnan spoke. If d’Artagnan had the strength to still be stroppy and moody, he was not so badly injured.

“After all we have done to get in here?” Athos scoffed petulantly, though inwardly relieved the boy was conscious and speaking. “I think not.” 

At this d’Artagnan finally looked up at Athos, allowing the musketeer to see the damage. A split lip and a bruised jaw seemed to be the extent of his injuries, which Athos was thankful for. His mind earlier had been supplying images of the boy beaten beyond recognition, which had caused him a great deal of anguish.

“I’m still angry at you and _this,”_ d’Artagnan nodded to the manacles fastened tightly around his wrists, “disproves my point.”

“So you wish me leave you here? Let you sit in those chains?” Athos supplied sceptically as he leaned against the wall, looking down at his protégé with an eyebrow raised.

“Yes, now go away, I will meet you back at the garrison,” d’Artagnan sniffed in a petulant way. 

“Don’t be a f –“ Athos froze upon the word as d’Artagnan’s head shot up at him, the Gascon’s dark brown eyes daring him to continue. “Don’t be so stubborn.” Athos continued, sliding his back down to wall so that he and d’Artagnan sat side by side upon the damp muddied ground of the cellar.

“I’m not weak,” d’Artagnan replied tightly, turning to scowl at the floor once more, “I don’t need to be mollycoddled and treated like some lost puppy you lot adopted out of pity.”

“We do not think you are not weak, d’Artagnan, nor do we think you an incompetent child,” Athos sighed, “Tréville would never have commissioned you if you were anything but an exemplary solider.”

“Then why do you all hide things from me? I see it, you all conceal things from when you think they might be dangerous. It’s always _don’t worry about it, d’Artagnan_ or _never mind, it is over_ , and my absolute favourite, _everything’s fine now_.” D’Artagnan snarled, though his anger seemed to be mostly pent up frustration than anything else. “Why must I always be kept in the dark? I am a musketeer of the King and yet you all treat me like I am made of glass. Do you not trust me? You think I can’t handle things for myself?”

Athos raised his brow in mock scepticism as he looked towards d’Artagnan’s chained wrists.

“This doesn’t count.” D’Artagnan glared, “There were five of them and they knocked me out before I could grab my sword.”

This alerted Athos’ attention to the boy’s hairline, where he could see a thin gash and a patch of dark red blending into d’Artagnan’s naturally dark hair.

“I’m fine,” d’Artagnan sighed in a tired tone, sounding exasperated by the whole affair.

“You claim you want transparency between us and yet you hide things from me also…” Athos told him carefully. 

“Vincent was my business, you should have let me handle it.” D’Artagnan sighed wearily. “I knew Vincent was a manipulating idiot, which is why I tried to keep him away from you all. I was worried you might think us alike…”

“Then you clearly do not know us as you think you do.” Athos informed him, “you should have come to us. But I do not think Vincent is the sole reason for your anger this morning.”

"He said you all baby me, that you only see me as some novelty you keep around," d'Artagnan murmured sullenly, making Athos furious. 

"Then he clearly does not know anything about us or you, we do not mollycoddle you." Athos told the young musketeer seriously. 

“But you do though, you claim that you all trust me but then you utterly undermine me whenever I make decisions for myself. I’m a King’s musketeer and you treat me like a some useless kid.”

“D’Artagnan, yes, you are a King’s musketeer, one of the finest in the regiment, if I may say so,” Athos told him, causing the younger man to look up once more, “but you are also young and are inexperienced as a soldier. Our protection of you is not mollycoddling, it's  _training_. You must understand, Porthos grew up in the Court, Aramis is a season solider of many a year…” Athos informed him, “The three of us have been nigh inseparable for five years now, you cannot compare how we see each other to how we see you.” Athos let this hang in the air for a moment. “We do not see you as weak or incompetent, perhaps a little foolhardy at times but never a coward.” Athos told him with a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. “You are truly one of us, d’Artagnan, which has been a rare experience for myself especially. I’ve been told recently that I sometimes come off as intimidating and unsociable.”

At this d’Artagnan snorted audibly at Athos' confession.  

“You are still learning, d’Artagnan," Athos continued, "we could never forgive ourselves if something were to happen to you because we have failed in our training or our protection of you." 

“I know, it’s just…” d'Artagnan sighed, "it makes me feel so useless, like I'm the weakest link in the chain…" 

“D’Artagnan, how many covert assignments do you think I went on during my first year of commission? How many of the King’s missives do you think Porthos carried out when he first joined? Do you think Aramis would have been allowed to attend parades even before he joined the ranks?”

Athos let the questions hang in the air for the moment, watching d’Artagnan looking a little guilty and put out.

 “You are a newly recruited musketeer, d’Artagnan, you must remember this. Most recruits are on sentry duty for their first year, they spend their time on parades and if they’re lucky they may go on a few training exercisers or a hunt with the King.” Athos informed the younger man. “Most recruits your age have to spend two years in les Essarts’ regiment before they are even considered for the King’s private guard.” 

“Really?” d’Artagnan wondered aloud.

“Really. Why do you think all les Essarts’ guards dislike you?” 

“Oh, I just thought it was because I was from Gascony…” d’Artagnan frowned thoughtfully.

Athos smirked a little at this, before continuing, “Like it or not, we are going to try keep you out of harms way when we can, but it not because we do not think you cannot handle yourself if need be. You are our brother d’Artagnan and we will have your back only because we know that if the situation were different, you would do the same.” 

“I just don’t want to be a burden,”

“You could never be a burden to us, d’Artagnan.” Athos told him in earnest, “We have all had times when have needed each other, just because today is your turn does not mean that tomorrow Aramis will not be the one, or Porthos, or myself.”  

 “Tomorrow’s a Sunday,” d’Artagnan pointed out absently.

“Ugh,” Athos ducked his head, “then it is most likely that it will be Aramis.” 

This made d’Artagnan chuckle cheekily at Athos' attempt at humour.  

“I am sorry for the things I said this morning," d'Artagnan apologised sincerely, biting his lip slightly as he met Athos' gaze. 

Athos gave d’Artagnan an acknowledging nod, though said nothing in reply. They had aired their grievances and had settled the anger between them, nothing more needed to be said upon the matter.  

“So, does this mean you wish me to release you?” Athos wondered after a moment, “or shall I inform the others that you have move lodgings in favour of a cellar? It’s rather dark, but I’m sure the rats would enjoy your company.”

D’Artagnan gave a meek smirk before moving his chained wrists closer to the musketeer.

With a click of the lock, Athos unshackled the heavy iron manacles, freeing d’Artagnan’s hands. However the wreckage Athos found between the iron, curled his stomach. D’Artagnan’s wrists were rubbed raw, slick with dark blood in a disturbingly mangled display of flesh. They looked horridly painful - how had d'Artagnan been laughed and smiling with him mere moments ago with this torturing him? 

“ _Good God_ , what have you done to yourself?” Athos sucked in a tight breath, taking the boy’s wrists gingerly in his hands, taking extra caution with their bloodied stated. 

“The shackles proved to be a little harder to slip than ropes,” d’Artagnan winced as Athos brought the young Gascon’s hands into the shard of light.  

“I take back everything I said,” Athos growled, “you are an idiot…”

D’Artagnan pouted a little at the insult, creasing his brow and his mood deflated.

Athos cringed at the thought that a single word had completely changed d'Artagnan's mood, the boy even seemed to be in more pain now that he was focusing solely upon his oozing wrists. It was clear that distraction worked best with d'Artagnan when it came to dealing with pain. 

“But do not think you are alone with that title,” Athos noted with a small sigh, attracting the boy’s attention instantly, “Did you know, Porthos once fell out a window while trying to put a boot on…?” 

“Seriously?” d’Artagnan gapped is amused awe. 

“He was rather drunk at the time.” Athos explained lightly, “Luckily Aramis was there to catch his fall.” He added with a touch of dark humour.

 D’Artagnan cringed at the thought.

“Broke three of my ribs,” Aramis noted casually, alerting the two of his presence as he appeared at the bottom of the stairs, looking nonchalant and carefree even with a few flecks of blood upon his face and sword.

“If we’re swapping tales of stupidity, Athos’ list’s far longer than ours,” Porthos chuckled as he made his way down the staircase, a clean bandage wrapped around his throat.

“Come, we should get back,” Athos told them, “the sun will be down soon.”

“I’m so tired I could sleep for a week,” d’Artagnan sighed as they began to make their leave.

“Not with that concussion, you’re not.” Aramis noted casually as he began assessing the boy’s injuries.

 

†††

 They had made it back to the garrison with no further complications or damages to those wounded. Aramis had practically screeched over d'Artagnan's wrists, as did Porthos, though as he was also injured he also received worried glances from d'Artagnan. Once back in the familiar walls of the Musketeer's garrison, Athos began to relax. Porthos' injury was not as bad as they had previously thought and had already stopped oozing blood and d'Artagnan's biggest issue was his wrist and the concussion on top of his already weary state. 

In the corner of his eye, a flash of blonde hair in the fading sunlight caught Athos' attention instantly as he saw the blonde Gascon slink against the walls of the garrison, clearly still wanting something from them after everything he had caused since he had arrived in their lives.   

Wishing to talk to the Gascon alone, Athos turned to Aramis, "Look after them," he told him softly as he paused in the courtyard of the garrison. 

"I always do," Aramis returned but then frowned slightly, "where are you going?" 

Athos gestured his gaze over to the blonde's hiding spot, 

"I'll leave you to it." Aramis nodded quietly, moving off towards the infirmary without a word to Porthos, clearly not wanting Porthos to engage with Vincent, in case it would cause further damage to his neck wound. 

Once the others were out of sight, Athos approached the man in the shadows. 

“D’Artagnan’s alive,” Athos drawled coolly, visibly making the other man jump in surprise, “if you care to know…”

“What? Oh yeah, good, _phew_ ,” Vincent recovered shamelessly, “I knew he’d be fine, that kid always lands on his feet.”

“What do you want Vincent?” Athos watched the man before him with careful precision. 

“Did you kill Héron and all his men?” Vincent asked, clearly not wishing to beat around the question. 

“No,” Athos revealed delicately. It was not his fault Vincent had phrased the question wrong.

“ _Christ_ ,” Vincent paled, running a shaking hand through his hair. 

“Can I still borrow four hundred livre?” Vincent tried, looking utterly pathetic. 

 “No,” Athos scoffed in disbelief. Was that truly all the man cared about?

“No, please, I’m desperate –“

“Héron is not dead but his is most probably dying, so he is no doubt distracted for the time being. I’m sure if you were to leave Paris, he and his remaining men would have a hard time in finding out.” 

“But I don’t – “ 

“If you need further incentive, I would be happy to threaten you.” Athos supplied casually though his eyes were sharp and menacing. 

“I see,” Vincent nodded numbly, taking in all that Athos had just explained to him.

“ _Go_ ,” Athos uttered, his voice low and dangerously still. "And do not return to this city, otherwise I may be inclined to send Héron your whereabouts." 

"Can you tell d'Artagnan I said goodbye?" Vincent requested quietly after a moment, "and that I'm sorry I got him into this mess."

"I'll pass on the message." 

"Look, I know you all pretty much hate me, but I'm glad he found you lot." Vincent confessed with earnest, "He really is a good guy and I'm happy he's finally found people that see that and care about him." 

Slightly confused as to the nature of Vincent's confession, Athos simply nodded in thanks. 

"I'll see you round 'Thos," Vincent chuckled as he walked out into the light of the setting sun.  

“Another you have frightened out of Paris on pain death,” Aramis’ chuckled as he stepped out of the shadows, the fading orange glow of the sun catching on his features. 

“I have a list.” Athos retorted with a deadpanned expression. 

“It seems to be growing rapidly, perhaps I may see it one day?" Aramis pondered simply. 

“Not unless you want to be on it.” Athos smirked a little as he caught Aramis' gaze. “D’Artagnan?” 

“Porthos is with him.” Aramis informed him, before adding, “They'll both be fine after a few days rest."

"You were right.” Athos sighed as he watched the sun slowly sink behind the rooftops. 

“I usually am, but what was it this time?” Aramis frowned slightly. 

“I should have trusted d’Artagnan to handle things on his own, if I had not have pushed him, he would not have been in that cellar today.”

“Athos, we can never know the true course of the world, who’s to say what would have happened?” Aramis announce poetically as he made his way to the courtyard's archway. 

“Where are you off to?” Athos raised his brow suspiciously. 

“To fetch pastries and oranges from my apartments.” Aramis smiled in return, “Porthos is a hound when it goes to knowing the contents of my pantries.”

“Your maid simply fancies him, tells him anything he wishes.” Athos revealed casually.

“Rosette?” Aramis gaped with mock astonishment, “that little traitor… we shall have words.”

"All the best then," Athos nodded, before adding,  "And bring back the Armagnac in your top left cupboard." 

"Rosette, why must you desert me so?" Aramis sighed dramatically to the Heavens above. 

Athos chuckled with contentment as he watched Aramis slink back into the shadows, becoming a silhouette against the slowly darkening Parisian streets. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks all for reading! As ever let me know what you thought! :) I really appreciate all you've got to say :) 
> 
> Next Chapter is the final one - d'Artagnan; 'in which d'Artagnan learns the dangers of keeping secrets'


	6. d'Artagnan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \+ 1 'in which d'Artagnan learns the dangers in keeping secrets'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the final chapter! :) Thank you so much to everyone who has read, reviewed, kudos and bookmarked!!! It's been amazing!! :D 
> 
> A/N : a tiny bit of offensive language - if that's your beef, apologises, it's nothing big, but thought I'd just let you know & SPOILERS for the last two eps!!
> 
> Also if you see any mistakes, let me know :) I'm awful at catching them!

The hollow clink of the chain echoed forebodingly as he was roughly dragged into the crowded courtyard.  The midday bells tolled ominously in the distance, as the young musketeer was pulled ever closer to the wooden scaffold in the centre of the crowd.

It took all the courage he possessed to walk forth upon the scaffold unaided. He knew they were there, somewhere in the crowds of jeering strangers. Somewhere his brothers were watching him at his weakest moment. 

Hate-filled cries of _‘Murderer’_ cut through him, deeper than any blade could hope to achieve. _‘Let ‘im hang!’_ another cried out as he was positioned before the crowd.

 _‘Burn in hell murderer!’_ D’Artagnan heard one clearly shout, though he doubted the grimy peasant even knew about the trial. He probably just wanted to watch the musketeer hang for an afternoon’s entertainment.

“Charles d’Artagnan,” an unknown official stepped forward, though he seemed to be addressing the crowded rather than the man he named. “You are charged with the murder of Comte Bertrand de la Marche, for which you have been found guilty. For these crimes you have been sentenced to hang from the neck until dead.” 

He prayed it would be quick, though he knew that there was little hope in that. Hanging was not an exact science and usually consisted of the victim struggling in vain as they died slowly. It was most likely that they wished him to suffer, to die choking upon his last breaths, the way they all thought he deserved.

“Do you have any last words you wish to confess?”

 _Confess_? No. He would not confess. He would take their secrets to his grave, laying down his life so that his friends may be spared the horrors of the Baron’s grip. After all they had done for him, he would not abandon them at the final hour, simply to save his own skin. 

He closed his eyes, allowing a single tear to escape down upon his cheek. With hands tightly bound, the rope scratching his neck, balancing precariously upon the block beneath is feet – d’Artagnan made his peace, accepting the fate had he been forced into. 

Lazily gazing a top the faces of the crowd, d’Artagnan caught sight of something that stilled his heart and mind. There amongst all those would had gathered to see him meet his fate, stood three unmoving forces, like large rocks against the wildest of storm swelled waves.

Porthos looked furious and terrified all at once, his hand upon the hilt of his rapier as if desperate to unsheathed the weapon and demand justice. Aramis looked distressed in a way that d’Artagnan had not seen before, he also seemed to be whispering something as he gaze up at d'Artagnan. And Athos. Athos looked as thought his heart hand been tore from his chest. His eyes were wide, brow furrowed in desperation and anguish. A small part of d’Artagnan wish he had got the firing squad instead, if only to spare Athos the torment of watching another person hang.

Closing his eyes, d’Artagnan attempted commit this image as the last he was to ever see.  

But, _yes_ , he had a few last words to give the world before he was forcefully pushed off this mortal coil. Ones that seemed to give him the strength to open his eyes and seek out the gaze of the three men he’d admired most in the world.  

“All for one and one for all…”

 

 

–      _Two Days Earlier_     –

 

 

The garrison was horridly dull come midmorning. All the men had eaten and left to their duties, leaving a bare almost lifeless courtyard free of bawdy activity and entertainment. As most were away on assignment or on a two-day hunting trip with the King, the garrison was looking rather empty at the moment.

Having found himself with an unprecedented day’s leave on Tréville’s strict authority, d’Artagnan was at an utter loss as what to do.

“Monsieur Aramis?” A quiet yet authoritative voice spoke clearly as a young woman appeared in the archway of the garrison.

Rosalie, one the Queen’s ladies stepped forth into the garrison, delicately removing her large hood to reveal her soft features. Technically, they had never met, but Porthos had pointed her out to him once, in hopes that the young Gascon would stop pining over Madame Bonacieux.

“I’m afraid he is away, accompanying the Duke and Duchess of Vendôme back to their residence,” d’Artagnan offered with a slightly sour tone.

The Duke and Duchess’ stay had been rather trying for all involved, though mostly for the young Gascon. It was not that they were terribly awful people; the Duke was a rather amicable gentleman and the Duchess was a beautiful woman in both face and soul. However their youngest son, François, was another matter entirely. The boy was rude, brash, arrogant and snobbish, but only to those he felt superior to – which included servants, stableboys and d’Artagnan. 

Due to this, the two had felt an instant dislike for one another, one that did not bode well throughout the course of their visit.

Being only fourteen, François had developed an odious sense of entitlement and a deeply envious and possessive nature. Coupled with an obsessive fixation upon the King’s Musketeers, the young lord had been drawn to Athos, Porthos and Aramis upon first sight. However upon seeing d’Artagnan interact so casually with his brothers, François’ jealous qualities had taken hold.

This made for a rather awkward few days in the Palace as the King was eager to show off his young musketeer and was blind to the young noble’s spiteful hatred that seethed and flared when ignored. And though d’Artagnan tried his best to remain civil with the young terror, François just seemed to be able to know all of d’Artagnan’s triggers. 

In the end the Captain had chosen to be diplomatic upon the matter, allowing the trio of musketeers to depart for Vendôme, whilst asking d’Artagnan to remain in Paris if only to keep the peace for the length of the journey. As the excursion was only a half-day’s journey, d’Artagnan made not effort in protest. Truthfully he was rather thankful to be rid of the presence of the malicious little weasel.

However that did leave d’Artagnan to mope about the garrison with a full day to kill. Once there had been a time where he would have simply spent the day accompanying Constance with her daily chores however now these small moments seemed to drive the thinnest of blades into his heart; he would not notice them piercing until hours later when the pain of her absence would hit all the more harder. 

And under Athos’ stern instructions, d’Artagnan was forbidden to get himself into trouble while the trio were away. Though both Porthos and Aramis had sniggered rather vocally at these warnings – claiming they had a better chance of Hell’s eternal flames freezing over than d’Artagnan staying away from trouble – d’Artagnan had promised nonetheless. And he was prepared to prove Aramis and Porthos wrong – he also had thirty sous riding on it. 

So here he sat; bored, useless and completely out of harm's way.   

However as he watched Rosalie’s worried expression, d’Artagnan feared be may have to break his promise with Athos. 

“Oh dear,” the young woman paled slightly, trembling visibly, “her Majesty asked for the Monsieur directly, it is a matter of great importance.” 

“I am a dear friend of Aramis and am known to the Queen, if I accompanied you, I sure I could explain his absence and perhaps aid her Majesty in his place.”

“Then follow me Monsieur,” Rosalie nodded sharply. 

 

†††

 

It felt completely unnatural to step into the Queen’s lavish rooms. Every bone in his body was screaming to step away. These were her Majesty’s private apartments and though Rosalie urged him to keep at her heels, d’Artagnan could not help feeling uncomfortable walking through the secluded halls of the Queen.  

A small part of his mind wondered why the Queen was calling upon Aramis to visit her in her private quarters, though this thought was quickly brushed away.

“Your Majesty,” Rosalie gave a small curtsey as she entered the room.

Anne of Austria stood as flawless as ever, bathed in a halo of sunlight at the window of her awe-inspiring salon. Though largely absent of a great deal of furniture, the room held a resonating welcoming presence. A large mirror hung over an intricately carved marble fireplace and several chaise lounges sat along the walls.  Several of her Majesty’s ladies in waiting were gathered around her, flittering about like small birds upon a windowsill. However the Queen stood with a powerful grace, turning slightly as she heard the two enter. 

“D’Artagnan…?” The Queen frowned a little upon seeing him at her door, clearly disenchanted that d’Artagnan was not a certain charming moustache bearing musketeer. Well, she was not the first woman to be disappointed he was not Aramis and he suspected she wouldn’t be the last.

“Aramis is away, es – “ d’Artagnan began to apologise. 

“Escorting the Duke and Duchess,” her Majesty’s face fell slightly and though she tried to cover her disappointment, d’Artagnan could read it plainly in her eyes, “how careless of me to forget.” 

“It’s alright, I’d be worried if you did know Aramis’ movements…” d’Artagnan snorted and then winced as he realised he’d spoken aloud, ducking his head down bashfully. _Had he truly just said that to the Queen of France_?

Far too much time spent around his fellow musketeers have given the young Gascon a talent at rapid fire retort, though d’Artagnan was quickly realising that a number of situations did not require this newly honed skill of his. Usually Porthos or Aramis would elbow him in the ribs or slap the back of his head well before he could finish those sorts of ill thought out sentences. 

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” the Queen said slowly with a diplomatic edge, though there were no signs of anger behind her tone.

“Thank you, that would be greatly appreciated,” d’Artagnan replied quickly in a meek tone, horrendously embarrassed at the tactlessness he’d just displayed before the Queen. It was rare for the young musketeer to be in the presence of just the Queen by herself, rarer still that he was without the company of his brothers.

“Well in truth, my task is not something which Aramis is necessarily required,” the Queen informed him quickly, brushing off the Gascon’s carelessness easily, “I only asked after him as he has proven himself amicably in the past.”   

“Of course your Majesty,” d’Artagnan nodded dutifully, taking great care to present himself as a respectable musketeer, rather than the idiot he’d proven himself to be earlier. “I understand that I am not half the musketeer Aramis is, but I am willing to aide you in anyway possible if I am able.”

“You are too hard on yourself,” Anne of Austria smiled warmly, “I have heard a great deal of praise attached to your name, largely from my husband and your Captain.”

To this d’Artagnan felt his cheeks redden slightly under the Queen’s flattery, catching her gaze timidly as he gave her a small appreciative smile.

“I require you to deliver a letter from myself to the Baron de Longepierre.” Her Majesty informed him as she presented a small envelope to the young musketeer.

“Of course, your Majesty,” d’Artagnan nodded with a wide smile as he took the missive graciously. It was perfect, something to take his mind off his boredom but just boring enough to keep his promise to Athos. “Was there anything else...?”

“Simply give Longepierre the letter, ” The Queen told him carefully, “that is all.”

“Then I shall see it done,” d’Artagnan informed her with a short respectful bow, tucking the envelope into his doublet as he made to leave. 

“D’Artagnan,” her Majesty’s voice stopped the young musketeer the doorway.

“Have care around the Baron, merely deliver the letter, nothing further.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” d’Artagnan agreed humbly, dipping his head once again in a half bow before exiting the room.

 

 

†††

 

The Baron’s apartments were large and imposing, though there were nothing upon the beauty and splendour the Louvre palace held.

Its luxury was truly a mystery to behold. Rich lavish hallways were intricately detailed in a way unlike any of the noble apartments d’Artagnan had entered. Which was intriguing as Barons were not usually known for their over extravagance and abundance of wealth. Athos’ status as a Comte was far greater than the Baron’s and yet Longepierre’s apartments seemed to reflect that of a Duke or Marquis.

What more, it seemed as though the Baron’s apartments had not been used in some time. A small army of maids were quickly rushing past, stripping white sheets from the furniture, creating small clouds of dust to flitter about in the air like small creatures dancing in the rays of sunlight.

Upon entering the Baron’s large apartments, d’Artagnan had been given strict instructions to wait in the hall until Longepierre was ready to receive company. This did not bother the young musketeer so much as the flurry of excitement around him as well as the lavishness of the hall in which he found himself provided ample entertainment for the time being. 

Starring up at a large imposing painting in awe, d’Artagnan took a step back in hopes to see the enormous mural in its entirety. However as the musketeer moved, he unknowingly stepped right in the way of a small elderly woman trying to hurry past carrying an ornate blue and white delftware teapot.

Crashing into the old woman, d’Artagnan let out a small yelp with was followed by a gasp from the woman and a thunderous crash as the delicate crockery fell to the floor, shattering instantly upon impact with the marble tiles. 

“I am so sorry!” d’Artagnan yelped as he saw the destroyed remnants of the teapot upon the floor, rushing to he knees to try and gather the pieces, in hopes that they would somehow miraculously glue themselves back together. “Let me pay for my damage Madame, how much was it?”

“Two hundred livre,” the woman told him with a deadpanned expression as she too knelt down to retrieve the small pieces littering the floor.  

“For a _teapot_?” d’Artagnan blanched, his eyes wide as he starred at the shards upon the floor. “ _How_?”

“It is quite alright, my dear, it was a hideous teapot,” she smiled warmly, placing a gentle hand upon the young musketeer’s forearm to reassure him. “I am rather glad to be rid of it, belonged to my mother-in-law, dreadful woman,” the old woman added with a small chuckle as she reached out to gather the sharp pieces from the floor, releasing a small gasp as it cut across her palm.

“I’m so sorry,” d’Artagnan winced, cupping the woman’s hand gently as he surveyed the damage, “now you have been injured.” 

“From my own clumsiness, nothing more, my dear, do not worry yourself,” the elderly woman shook her head, “though perhaps I might acquire your services in tending to my wounds?”  

“Of course,” d’Artagnan nodded quickly, following the woman into a large kitchen.

“Well at least it was not my writing hand,” the woman chuckled as she collected a bowl of water. “I have taken to writing for my husband as his hands are too weak do to do.” 

“Well, I’m sure you’ll be good as new, soon enough, Madame,” d’Artagnan promised sincerely.

“Pardon my manners dear, I am the Baron’s wife, Magritte.” 

“D’Artagnan of the King’s Musketeers, at your service, Baroness de Longepierre,” d’Artagnan told her proudly with a bright smile as he carefully dabbed away the blood from the Baroness’ small wound, in a way that would have made Aramis proud of his young student. Though he was a little embarrassed that he had broken the Baroness’ teapot, the kind elderly woman seemed to care less about the shattered crockery.

“Oh please call me Magritte, dearest d’Artagnan,” Magritte expressed casually, as though they were old friends, “if only to indulge an old woman wishing to feel young again.”

“ _Magritte_ , then,” d’Artagnan agreed as he began to wrap the small cut upon her palm with clean cloth, pausing as he came across a heavy cotton wrapping on the Baroness’ wrist.  “You are already injured,” he frowned

“A simply accident,” Magritte brushed off casually, “I wished for a little warmth in my quarters, but ended up a little too close to the flames.”

“With all these servants rushing about, surely one could have spared a moment to tend your fireplace.”

“True, next time I shall be less stubborn,” the Baroness smiled with a tinkle in her eye, “Oh, but tell me, it must be wonderful, to be a musketeer,” Magritte gazed at the young man in awe, effortlessly diverting the conversation back towards d’Artagnan, “your parents must be ever so proud.”

“I hope they are,” d’Artagnan replied honestly, his mood sobering slightly at the mention of his family. There had once been a time where his every waking thought had been upon how his father would have wanted him to live his life. Recently these thoughts had grown fewer, not that he had forgotten his father nor the values he had stood for, but rather d’Artagnan had come to realise the futility of these consuming thoughts – or in actuality Athos, Porthos and Aramis had all sat him down on separate occasions to discuss the ineffectuality of way of living.

“My parents are both dead,” d’Artagnan explained softly, “the Musketeers are my family now.”

“Then I’m sure your mother and father are watching over you, glowing with pride. Any parent would be blessed to have a son like you,” Magritte told him, cupping his cheek in a maternal gesture of kindness. D’Artagnan felt himself lean into her touch, warmed by the tender affection the Baroness bestowed upon him.

“Oh but my dear, I have kept you with all my frivolous chatter, I do apologise.” 

“The Baron will simply have to practice the art of patience,” d’Artagnan chuckled cheekily, “for I am engaged in a matter that requires my full attention; a wounded victim of a most terrible crime against crockery.”   

“I find myself feeling rather fortunate that my teapot broke at your feet and not that of another,” Magritte noted with an almost melancholy tone, as though sadden by the joy of the moment. “I feel I have not smiled this much in years.”

“Well you might not think yourself so lucky when you learn it was my friend Aramis who was meant to be here in my place,” d’Artagnan informed the Baroness, “for if you were truly fortunate it would be his skilled hands tending to your wounds,” d’Artagnan informed the woman with a smile, “he has a wonderful talent for medicine as well as being notoriously favoured by the ladies of the court.”  

“I thought I’d heard that name before…” the Baroness chuckled lightly for a moment before stopping abruptly, eyes wide as if coming across a shocking thought.   

“Are you alright?” d’Artagnan paused with a small frown as he studied Magritte’s troubled expression. “You are not hurt anywhere else are you?”  

“Monsieur musketeer,” the housemaid interrupted from the doorway, “the Baron will see you now.” 

Though it was highly disrespectful for a maid to interrupt her mistress, the Baroness did not seem to take offense to this interruption, nor did she even seem to acknowledge it. 

“Aramis, of the King’s Musketeers?” Magritte questioned, her complexion paling as her brow’s furrowed with concern. 

“I see his reputation precedes him,” d’Artagnan grinned a little, trying to act unfazed by the change in Magritte’s composure, though he was slightly perturbed by the rapid transformation. “He will be impressed, but unfortunately duty calls. I apologise for your teapot, Madame, but it was a pleasure making your acquaintance,” he bowed slightly as he went to follow the housemaid.

“ _No_ ,“ Magritte cried out as she took d’Artagnan’s sleeve desperately, thumbing the leather absently as she bit her lip slightly.  “ _Please_ – “

“The Baron abhors tardiness,” the maid coughed sharply to prompt d’Artagnan’s speed. This seemed to silence the Baroness completely and she made no further attempts to stall the young musketeer. 

“Baroness,” d’Artagnan nodded with deep respect, making his leave of the room. As wonderful as Magritte’s company had been – it had reminded him of the treasured Sunday afternoons he had spent with his grandmother when he was a young boy – he had been sent to the Baron’s apartments on the Queen’s request and would see her Majesty’s orders carried out.

 

 

†††

The Baron was a particularly odious looking man, rather like a mole-type creature who had only just crawled up out of the darkness to live among the gentry. Dark pit-like eyes shone like gleaming black buttons, sunken in upon his pale and weathered face. The man looked old and weak, white-grey hair dusted the tops of his head in a way that upon most gentlemen would have seemed distinguished, but on the Baron, it made the man seem elderly and decrepit.

Longepierre stood at the far left of the room, by the glass windows that seem to be the only light entering the heavily shadowed study. Unlike the rest of the Baron’s apartments, his study seemed to be stoped in darkness and blackened timbres. 

“I am here to deliver a missive from her Majesty the Queen,” d’Artagnan spoke as he entered the dark room, he was a touch apprehensive though he did his best not the project this.

“Do come in,” Longepierre waved d’Artagnan in though he did not even turn to acknowledge the musketeer’s presence.

Slightly angry at the rude nature of the Baron, d’Artagnan pushed down his pride and stepped forward, retrieving the Queen’s letter from his doublet, smoothing the slight crease in its edge.

“Anne is not with you then…?” The Baron sniffed as he finally turned to gaze upon d’Artagnan, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the man he saw before him.  

“Her Majesty, _the Queen_ ,” d’Artagnan correctly sharply, irritated with the informality the Baron had taken when referring to their sovereign, “has more pressing matter to see to rather than delivering her mail personally,” he continued cattishly.

“Pity,” the baron cocked his head to one side as if examining d’Artagnan in a new light, “and you look like such wonderful young gentleman. Nevertheless, I have always wanted a soldier.”

“Pardon?” d’Artagnan gaped a little, his brow’s furrowed as he gazed at the Baron in confusion. The nobleman was completely rude and made no sense. No wonder the Queen told him to leave the moment he arrived, the man was probably not right in the head – though that would answer some of his early questions. 

“Oh and look at you, aren’t you quaint?” the Baron chuckled merrily, “all duty and righteousness, yet so pure and innocent.” 

“Your letter, Monsieur,” d’Artagnan sighed in irritation. Even boredom was preferable to this. Handing out the Queen’s missive directly, the Baron simply looked at it for a moment and smiled wickedly.

“What was your name again boy?” Longepierre licked the bottom of his lip in curious through as he surveyed d’Artagnan in an inquisitive fashion. 

“D’Artagnan,” he spat through clenched teeth, furious at the patronising attitude of the Baron as the musketeer pushed the letter out again, trying to get Longepierre to take it.

“ _D’Artagnan_ ,” the Baron tried the name out upon his tongue, “ _Yes_ … I do recall your name floating about the city. The Captain’s _precious_ new recruit.” Longepierre smiled as if he had come across something wondrous, “you’re that little puppy that has been following Tréville’s golden trio, aren’t you?" 

D’Artagnan refused to verbally acknowledge the Baron’s question, choosing to answer with a cold, warning glare, his jaw clenched tight.  

“Tell me, do you love your brothers, boy?” Longepierre asked casually, dropping his interrogating tone, yet his intensity remained ever present.

“What?” d’Artagnan looked up at the Baron with a confused expression.

“Tis a simply question, do you love them, _yes or no_?” The Baron looked over at him from across the room.

“Yes.”

“ _Wonderful_ ,” the baron clapped his hands together with a knowing smile, as he dug through a cabinet of rustling papers. “I have always loved the brotherhood of the soldiers, so tightly bound in honour and loyalty, beautifully romantic, don’t you agree?" 

Once more d’Artagnan refused to answer, deciding a far better use of his time was to stare blankly at the ceiling, ignoring the utter nonsense the Baron was nattering about. The young musketeer was now positive the Baron was mentally ill and felt rather sorry for the dear Baroness having to deal with this lunacy. 

“Taking a blade for your brother in arms upon the bloodied fields of battle,” Longepierre carried on, though d’Artagnan pretended not to listen, for the Gascon did not wish to encourage the Baron. “Utterly glorious. In this horridly politically age, it is easy to lose that romance in our lives, don’t you agree? You know, I do believe that the battle field may be the last place for such acts of selflessness.”

“Then why not join the ranks, yourself,” d’Artagnan sighed, trying once more to hand the baron the letter, though Longepierre ignored it once again. “I hear the Cardinal’s always looking for men.”

“Oh my dear child,” the baron chided with a condescending expression, as he shuffled a pile of papers upon his desk, “I could never be a solider, good heavens no. I am a director not an actor, the player of the game not the piece. I do not follow orders, I give them.”

D’Artagnan took a step back from the Baron as he sensed the man’s tone turn icy and intrusive. Somehow in the past few moments, Longepierre had mutated from a chattering loon to an eerie predator.

“Then what was all that about wanting to be a solider?” D’Artagnan wondered aloud, not following the Baron’s meaning. Longepierre no longer took on a blasé demeanour as he stalked towards d’Artagnan from across the room. This only made d’Artagnan want to back far away from the man. 

History would say that d’Artagnan was not the greatest judge of character at times. And true, he did not have Porthos’ savvy in reading people, especially when they had set out to manipulate him. However, in that moment, d’Artagnan could read the Baron easily and he was turning out to be someone that the young Gascon did not wish to be in the company of. 

“You misunderstand me,” Longepierre chuckled airily before his tone turned cold and dark, “I do not want to be a soldier, I wish to control one, as master would his puppet, watch him carry out the scenes I have written, revel in the chaotic tragedy that I have created.”

“Right…” d’Artagnan nodded in a , holding the Queen’s letter out against the Baron’s chest. “Here’s your letter, _good day_.”

“I shall enjoy destroying you, d’Artagnan, it will be beautiful, a masterpiece, all shall weep upon your tale of woe and I shall be your creator.”  

“What the hell are you talking about?” D’Artagnan yanked his hand out of the Baron’s grip, furious at the confusing nature of Longepierre’s madness.

“Punishment, _child_ , I asked for the Queen and she sent you in her stead!” Longepierre barked with such a jolt in volume, d’Artagnan almost flinched. “I do not like to be disobeyed, especially by the inferior sex.” 

“She is the Queen of France, you are _French_ , you best get used to it.”

“How naïve of you to think so,” Longepierre tutted absently, “Tell me, do you even know why you’re here?”

“I am here to deliver – “ d’Artagnan stated though the Baron quickly cut him off.

“Read it.”

“The letter is addressed to yo –“ d’Artagnan protested cordially, though he was barely containing the prideful anger that bubbled beneath his skin like a raging flame.   

“ _Read it_.”

Glaring at the Baron for a moment, d’Artagnan sighed in frustration and tore the Queen’s red wax seal, folding open the letter with great reluctance. He did not wish to read the Queen’s private mail, nor did he wish to be involved with whatever issues the Queen and Longepierre had.

Peering down at the flawlessly formed lettering upon the page, d’Artagnan found he could not appreciate its skill as the words they formed began to cause a sickening thought to rise from the pit of his stomach. Sentences such as _‘the crown does not bow to blackmail’_ as well as the phrase _‘France will not suffer the delusions of madmen_ ’ drew his eyes instantly. 

“What is this…?” D’Artagnan breathed out, his mind reeling over the den of secrets he had fallen into.

“I hold a particular interest in a great many things,” Longepierre mused in a casual fashion as he moved away from d’Artagnan towards the large windows of his study. “I am a philosopher, a scholar, a _devote_ man of God, but above all I am a collector and protector of the nation's most delicious and intriguing scandals and secrets.”

“None of this explains why you are threatening the Queen!” D’Artagnan growled as he slammed the letter down against the Baron’s desk. “You are not protecting her secrets, you are exploiting them.” 

“Her loyalties to Spain are bothersome to me,” Longepierre sighed flippantly, “and have become an inconvenience to my work.”

“That is no cause to try and _bully_ your Queen.”   

“Ah my sweet little d’Artagnan,” the man cooed in a patronising manner as if he had known the younger man all his life. “I can have brought the most honourable of Houses in France to their knees, do you truly believe the demands of one silly little girl could cripple me?” 

“She is your Queen, her demands are to be obeyed no matter the consequence.” 

“You shall learn my meaning soon enough,” the Baron gazed at d’Artagnan in a manner that send icy tendril down the Gascon’s spine. “In a few moments, a gentleman of a rather upstanding family will walk through those doors,” the Baron gestured at the doors behind them with a bright smile. “You shall then take your pistol and fire a single shot through his heart, and will accept the charge for his murder _graciously_.”

“You are deluding yourself Monsieur,” d’Artagnan shook his head, readying himself to leave the Baron’s apartments. “I will not indulge your insanity,” he added before storming towards the room’s only exit.

Longepierre sighed dramatically as if it were all a game. “If you do not, you put the lives and the honour of your fellow comrades at risk…”

The words echoed gnawingly in d’Artagnan’s mind as he paused at the door, his hand upon the handle. He knew he should leave, just at her Majesty had told him. Longepierre had the letter now; d’Artagnan’s job was done. However with the unknown threat looming over his brothers’ heads, d’Artagnan knew there was no leaving.   

“What are you talking about?” The Gascon demanded as he turned back to face the Baron.

Longepierre’s predatory grin seemed to lengthen tenfold as he knew d’Artagnan had taken the bait. “Remarkable isn’t it, that a barren Queen should fall pregnant just weeks after an expedition with four strapping young Musketeers.” 

“Her Majesty went to the healing pools, it helped with her pregnancy,” d’Artagnan shrugged, not knowing what the Baron was implying. 

“Yes and I’m sure a night within a convent, in the arms of a handsome musketeer did wonders for her also.” 

“Athos would never –“ d’Artagnan growled, defending Athos’ honour fiercely.

“I never said _Athos_ , child.” 

Suddenly images seemed to play back before his eyes; Aramis wearing the Queen’s cross around his neck, the looks between them, Athos’ silent fury and suspicious attitude toward Aramis after the events at the convent. It was all starting to piece itself together like a intricately woven tapestry he had only ever seen in tatters before then. Small blushes and smiles across the court, her Majesty’s favour towards the musketeer and the way Aramis sometimes talked of her when he was overtired or near passed out from drunkenness.

Athos and Aramis had never spoken of what had spurred their anger after the skirmish at the convent, only brushing it off when pushed. Even Porthos told d’Artagnan not to bother them about it.

“Aramis would not do this,” d’Artagnan held his ground, his jaw tight, though he could not push down the doubt rising in his heart.

Surely Aramis could not have done this? Athos would never had let him… Right? His brothers would have never been that stupid and reckless…

“I don’t believe you,” d’Artagnan told the Baron, swallowing his doubt with great effort. Aramis may be an incorrigible flirt at times, but d’Artagnan would be damned he was going to stand here and listening to this monster insult his brother so.  

“Do you require further proof?” Longepierre asked in wicked glee as he opened a large cabinet of papers. 

“Letters my dear boy, correspondents between the lovers,” the Baron smirked triumphantly, as he brought out a large stack of letters bound in twine, placing them upon his large oaken desk like a victory trophy.

“How did you…?” d’Artagnan bit his lip, desperately. At every turn Longepierre seem to be pushing the young musketeer towards an unbearable truth.

“Ladies in waiting are so easily manipulated, so full of glorious secrets desperate to be told to a welcome ear.” 

D’Artagnan’s entire body was near shaking with fear and anger. How could they not have told him this? Did they not trust him to keep their secrets? Athos had told him about Milady before either Porthos or Aramis – though looking back he had truly botched that up. Perhaps that had been their reason in not telling him.

But what he was truly afraid of was what would happen now. The Baron seemed overjoyed in holding the knowledge Aramis’ secret and d’Artagnan knew this must be what the Queen was so desperately trying to conceal – asking specifically for Aramis so as not to widen the circle of the secret.

What would Athos do in this situation? Would he allow himself to be blackmailed? Taken in by these accusations as a fly in spider’s web? Athos would probably have the sense and knowhow to avoid being drawn in by the like of Longepierre to begin with… 

“Sit, dear boy,” the Baron chuckled lightly, as if reading the inner turmoil in the young musketeer’s mind. “You shall be here a while…”

“Those letters are proof of nothing,” d’Artagnan snarled, though he knew his voice sounded desperate. “They could be forged, faked, they are nothing but _slander_.” 

“Ah but even without this proof I could stir such chaos with the palace the likes of which it shall never recover. For if I revealed this secret, it would plant something within the King’s mind that could never be forgotten; _a seed of doubt_.” The Baron whispered as if he were sharing some wondrous secret. “These letters may not convince the King completely, but it will make him suspicious, _jealous_. Perhaps jealous enough to disband his musketeers, maybe enough to annul his marriage, who knows what will grow?”

“You cannot do this,” d’Artagnan pleaded, though he hated how weak he sounded.  

“On the contrary, it is _you_ who cannot, the fate of your beloved musketeers lies within your control, not mine.”

“You have no proof!” D’Artagnan cried out in anger and frustration, his heart beating wilding in his chest as it constricted tighter with each breath. 

“Aramis will hang, there is not doubt of that,” the Baron smiled cruelly. “The Cardinal is already suspicious and would no doubt support my claims. Athos and Porthos will most likely follow in turn, for their concealment of the fact.” 

“No,” d’Artagnan whispered, feeling an overwhelming wave of conflicting emotions threatening to drown him completely. He still could not believe that his brothers would do this and keep him ignorant to the fact, but the evidence the Baron was piling up around him was too much to be ignored.

However Longepierre was far from over with him.

“And after I reveal the events that all four of you have committed treason against the crown, _well_ , the King will have no choice but to see you all for the traitorous, mercenaries you are.”

“ _Treason?_ ” d’Artagnan yelped, the sickness in his stomach rising to cover his heart with a burning wave of nausea. “We have not committed –“

“Sending Bonaire into Spanish custody may have eased your precious notion of righteousness, but by doing so you disobeyed the direct order of your King and cost him a rather lucrative investment.” 

“How could possibly know that?” d’Artagnan spat before realising he had just admitted to the crime where as he should have been denying all claims to it.

The Baron’s grin was suddenly looking far too smug, “I pride myself on having a wide spread influence, Monsieur d’Artagnan, you cannot think a large tavern in La Havre is beyond my reach?” 

“Perhaps the people of Paris also wish to know their heroic Captain Tréville knowingly sent his own men to their deaths in Savoy, or that one of their beloved musketeers married a treacherous murderess and _let her walk free_ …” 

D’Artagnan froze as he came to accept the horrible truths Longepierre was piercing him with. Was it such a stretch that Aramis had fallen for something beyond his reach? That the Queen had welcomed the comfort and charm of the loving musketeer in return?

“Why are you doing this?” d’Artagnan croaked in defeat, peering up at the Baron knowing that Longepierre had won.

“I dislike being ignored, child. Her Majesty must learn what happens when she disrespects my commands. Also your visit happened to arrive at a particularly fortuitous moment and I cannot ignore opportunities that fall so expertly into my lap.”

At that moment, a timid gentleman walked through the door, peering nervously at the Baron and d’Artagnan as he stepped into the room. 

“Ah, my dear Bertrand, how wonderful to see you,” the Baron spread his arms wide in a theatrical display of welcome.

D’Artagnan did nothing to acknowledge the newcomer, hesitant to do anything in the Baron’s presence.  Longepierre now held all the cards, one wrong move and everything the Gascon had gained and treasured since arriving in Paris, could tumble down around him.

“Bertrand, am I right in believing you have betrayed my confidence?” 

“I could not wait a moment longer,” the Comte de la Marche cried out, “she was beginning to ask questions!”

“And now you have ruined six months of careful planning and cost me a potential agreement with Duke’s daughter, his only point of pressure.” Longepierre spat in anger, though he regained his temper a moment later. 

 “I would do it myself, but I have weak hands, you see,” the Baron told the two men conversationally, displaying his hands for them both to see. The age-wearied digits had become slightly crippled over the years. “Have not been able to hold a pen nor pistol in my hands for four long years. Rather inconvenient to have to rely on others but I do so love when it all works out. So if you would be so kind, d’Artagnan.”

“I will not kill an innocent man,” d’Artagnan told them numbly, his heart racing into a sickening thud against his chest. 

" _Thank you_ , Monsieur!" the Comte sighed, though he was largely ignored by the others in the room. 

“Then you condemn your beloved friends and your Queen to death,” the Baron tittered humorously, “besides it is not as if he is truly innocent, he married a wealthy heiress simply to coerce her father.” 

“Because you ordered me to!” the Comte implored desperately.

“I did not tell you to kill her!" the Baron growled before turning back to d'Artagnan, "You are to play your part d’Artagnan or they shall die,” Longepierre’s tone revealed he had long since lost his patience with the young Gascon.

“Not if I were to kill you here.” D’Artagnan snarled, pulling his pistol free and holding it out at the Baron with an anger he had not felt since he faced Gaudet.

“By all means, I am at your mercy,” the Baron chuckled, stretching his arms out wide as if to give d’Artagnan a better target, “though it would accomplish nothing…”

D’Artagnan frowned a little as he held the Baron in his sights, it seemed the Baron was once more a step ahead of him.

“You do not think I wouldn’t have insurance in these matters, do you?” The Baron laughed brashly, “I have several men at my beck and call at any given moment, if I were to die, they would simply carry out my plans for me.”

D'Artagnan gave the Baron a cold, lifeless expression, as he realised he had no other option and swung the pistol's aim towards the Comte, hating himself for how weak and pathetic he had become in a singular act of cowardice.

“Please, monsieur, see reason!” the Comte begged desperately as the weapon was cast in his direction.

“Your fraternisations have irked me for the last time,” the Baron smiled victorious, gloating through his bright tone. 

D’Artagnan’s hands trembled as he held the pistol out towards the Comte, every instinct screaming for him to stop what he was doing.

“Hold it steady, child, or do you wish to see your brothers hanging from a rope?”

“If I do this, you must swear before God that you will leave my friends and the Queen be, you will not go anywhere near them with any business, this or other.” 

“I swear, they shall be left in peace,” Longepierre accepted, “now _shoot_.”

D’Artagnan swallowed as his gaze turned back to the anxious Comte. 

“Come now, you are a soldier, you have done this before,” the Baron chided, wrapping his own hand the pistol’s trigger, making d’Artagnan physically sick at Longepierre’s touch.

D’Artagnan wanted to correct him, wanted to say that any man he killed had not been innocent nor had their deaths been pre-determined and calculated.

Before the young musketeer could ponder further, Longepierre had pushed d’Artagnan’s finger back, depressing the trigger.

D’Artagnan felt his entire body go numb as the small ball of his pistol cut through de la Marche’s flesh with a sickening sound. He barely noticed as the pistol slipped his grasped and fell onto the hard marble flooring, nor did it even register in his mind that he had fallen to his knees, his gaze never leaving the man had been murdered in cold blood. 

Longepierre stood, towering over him, placing a hand upon his shoulder, like a proud father would his son, surveying his destruction will eerie fascination. 

“What a good boy you are.”

 

†††

 

The Châtelet was a different place without the protection of the Musketeers and a murder charge upon his hands. Rough, merciless hands had dragged him through dark corridors, pushing and pulling in all directions until d’Artagnan was unsure which way they had entered and where they had left.

Somewhere along the way, someone had relieved him of his weapons and his leather doublet – pauldron included – rewarding him with heavy iron manacles in his uniform’s stead. It was a pitiful trade but d’Artagnan had become so numb to the chaos around him he did not protest.

The cell he was unceremoniously thrown into was similar to that of the one he had been in with Vadim, though d’Artagnan was rather glad for the lack of company – he wasn’t prepared to deal with chatty roommates in his present state.

Food was delivered, though d’Artagnan knew better than to attempt to eat the sludge they called food. What did it matter anyway? He was a dead man walking. Though he had been told there as to be a trial, it would simply be for show, the Baron would watch his every move and force him to lie under oath. From there it was only a matter of time before d’Artagnan was handed over to the executioner, though it was still a mystery whether it be the noose or the firing squad, neither sounded particularly inviting.

His brothers were due to arrive back in the morning, though d’Artagnan wished they did not have to come back to the mess he’d found himself in.

Absently, detached from all that had occurred that day, d’Artagnan could not stop himself in thinking in a melancholy fashion that he had broken his promise with Athos.  

 

†††

  

The courtroom was blur of unknown faces, all staring at him with suspicion and discontent. The courtroom was itself an unfamiliar location, for this was definitely not where Porthos’ trial had been held. This room was large, echoic and imposing.

After his night in the Châtelet, d’Artagnan was not entirely sure he could concentrate on the proceedings around him, even if he wanted to.  His head buzzed and hummed as if the noise was consuming him from the inside, his heart thudding painfully in his chest and temples. They had not removed the tight manacles from his wrist, though d’Artagnan had already known that was a luxury an accused murderer would not received.

“This is highly irregular!” d’Artagnan could hear a familiar voice shouting his outrage somewhere through his clouded vision, bursting through like a piercing ray of sunlight in the darkest of abysses. But for the life of him, he could not place it. He felt as though in a dream, his conscious struggling to grip hold of that situation at hand.

D’Artagnan could almost sware it was Athos’ voice just now, but as he looked up through the sea of unidentifiable people his eyes could not focus upon the three he so desperately wished to see.

“Indeed, this is irregular, Monsieur,” the Judge roared above the crowd, “this case, as I have learnt, is not one that requires my judgement. The boy confessed, I see no reason for a trial.” 

A cheer of support came from scattered members of the crowd. The crowds’ negative encouragement did nothing for the pit growing in d’Artagnan’s heart. It seemed to be expanding evermore, perhaps soon it would completely devour him.

“And how do you know this confession was not under duress?” The Captain’s stern voice cut deep wounds into the young Gascon’s heart, causing him to look up to see Tréville standing valiantly before the angry Judge.

D’Artagnan’s eyes fell upon the man who given him a life truly worth coveting. Shame and guilt welled up inside him as he watched Tréville attempting to defend the Gascon’s honour. But d’Artagnan knew the truth, he had none left. 

Though the crime itself had been committed under threat, d’Artagnan could not admit to being innocent of de la Marche’s murder. It had been his hand that had pulled the trigger, his ball that entered the Comte’s chest, killing him instantly. True it was the Baron’s grip that had spurred the final blow, but d’Artagnan had aimed the weapon, he could have directed it elsewhere. Instead he had chosen to allow the Comte to die in favour of keeping his brothers’ secrets.  

“The Baron has delivered his statement of the facts, he bares witness to d’Artagnan’s crime,” the Judge told the people of the court sternly.

“D’Artagnan is an honourable soldier in my ranks, it is completely out of character for him to commit such an act.”

 _Was it though_? D’Artagnan thought absently though his dream-like state. The first time he had met Athos he had tried to kill him. Had they all forgotten this or were they choosing to ignore the Gascon’s more undesirable traits? Perhaps he should mention it the Judge himself? Perhaps he should reveal how he also bedded a murderess as well… 

Though it was in that moment that d’Artagnan’s gaze came across three faces that stopped his heart. He three brothers stood in the crowd, each looking confused and angry, Athos all the more.

“Charles d’Artagnan, how do you plea in regards your accused crimes?”

Did they think him a murderer? Were they ashamed of him? From across the room he had no way of correcting their judgments or seeking their forgiveness.

“ _Answer_ , boy,” the Judge growled, alerting d’Artagnan’s attention, though it did nothing to change the distance the musketeer felt between himself and reality.

D’Artagnan’s gaze darted lazily around the courtroom; Longepierre was in clear view, standing beside the judge – who was no doubt under the Comte’s thumb also. This was a mockery of justice, yet he was the only one who knew it.

A slow glance across the men he loved as brothers, sent a flurry of images to d’Artagnan’s mind; Athos facing the rope, Porthos before a squadron of muskets, Aramis pleading for the safety of his unborn child. It gave d’Artagnan no other option than to reply:

“ _Guilty_.”

“This makes no sense!” Athos roared at once, barely being contained behind the gates of the court.

“Ask him why!” Aramis beseeched, “Demand he tell you why!”

Porthos simply growled menacingly as he slammed his open palm against he wooden railing.

 “Keep your tongues, all or you, until you are called upon, or I shall have you have you all removed,” the Judge ordered fiercely, quietening their rage, if only slightly.

“Charles d’Artagnan do you have anything else to say in your defence?”

“ _No,_ ” d’Artagnan ground out clearly. There was nothing he could say that would not condemn his brothers to his fate. 

“In that case, Charles d’Artagnan, I see no choice but to find you guilt and sentence you to death, sentence to be carried out tomorrow midday.”

A wave of violent outrage exploded throughout the room, cries of fury and anger rose as d’Artagnan was callously torn from the courtroom. Large hands gripped his arms; bruising with their tight hold as they pulled him away from the crowds, presumably back to his cell in the Châtelet, though he could not be certain.

“You were wonderful,” the Baron’s voice purred in his ear, causing d’Artagnan to physically shake at the repulsive man at his side.

“D’Artagnan!” Aramis’ comfortingly familiar tones rang throughout the corridor and instantly d’Artagnan’s eyes were alert, searching for his brothers.

“Aramis?” d’Artagnan looked up in hope, slightly shaking off the drowning feeling that had been rising within him ever since he had crossed paths with the Baron. Perhaps all was not lost. If anyone could solve this horrid mess d’Artagnan had found himself in, it was his three brothers.

“I don’t believe that wise,” the Baron smiled cruelly as he gave a sharp nod at the guards holding d’Artagnan in their grip.

D’Artagnan only caught the smallest of glimpses as the trio rounded the corner – catching the looks of worry and anguish in their eyes for but a moment – before he felt a hand grip his hair tight, forcefully slamming his head against the cold stone walls, darkness claiming him instantly.  

 

†††

 

When he awoke it was dark. Though d’Artagnan could not tell whether it was due to the sun going down or simply the absence of light in his enclosed cell. His head throbbed wickedly where it had met the wall, but he ignored it, it was just one more thing on his list of woes.

The cell he had been dragged into seemed to be smaller that the one from the previous evening. Though it did not matter as d’Artagnan soon learned he could barely move about anyway. Heavy iron manacles held his arms to the walls, with little give, forcing him to stand. His legs were tired and aching, though the painful strains in his wrists from his period of unconsciousness were more so.

In the events after the trial, d’Artagnan could not even be sure that he was even in the Châtelet or another prison. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if he was even in Paris anymore. He had no way of knowing, not that he care at this point.

Once the sun rose, d’Artagnan would face the rope. There was no other way. To try and fight it would only ensure that Aramis, Porthos and Athos died in his place and he would never allow this to happen, not after everything they had done for him.

There were things he would have liked to see, just one last time, things he still wanted to do – he never did beat Athos in a sparing match, Aramis would never explain the story of Madame Angel’s, Porthos would never take him to see the sandy beaches like he had promised.

Promises would be broken all round.

Footsteps from the corridor outside echoed forebodingly as someone neared his cell door.  Was it morning already? The dank cell had no windows so time was impossible to tell from within.

As the heavy door creaked open, d’Artagnan’s heart sank as he recognised the figure.

“You’re quite popular as it seems,” the Baron chortled as he practically skipped into the room, his wicked featured illumined by a flaming torch in his hand, placing it in the holder by the door. “No less than ten of your musketeers brothers have come in hopes to speak with you this night, not including that of your dear Captain and a beautiful young woman by the name of Madame Bonacieux…”

  _Constance_. D’Artagnan’s heart throbbed achingly in his chest. In the chaos he had forgotten how this must have affected her. And now he would never see her again.

“Gorgeous young thing,” the Baron noted lecherously, “tut tut little d’Artagnan, a married woman, you are full of surprises. Perhaps your dear friend Aramis is rubbing off on you…" 

The musketeer refused to rise at the obvious attempt to anger him. Choosing to stare blankly at the wall, as if completely ignoring the Baron’s presence.

“There’s still something I don’t understand…” d’Artagnan whispered in the cold dark shadows of his cell, shivering against the chill, though positioned as he was, he could not huddle against the night’s frost. “You had the Queen in your grasp, why lose that simply to see me hang?”

“I believe Shakespeare said it best when he wrote ‘All the world’s a stage; the men and women merely players’,” the Baron, “You are my chess piece, my player, you move where I command.” 

“You’re obviously a terribly chess player,” d’Artagnan spoke wearily, his voice lifeless and detached, speaking more out of habit rather than wishing it so. “Queen beats pawn.”

“Intriguing,” the Baron purred, “I had you as a knight.”

Was this truly how he was to spend his final hours? If he were to scream and beg, if he pleaded upon his knees until they bled, would he be allowed to see his brothers once last time, could he kiss the lips of the only woman who had every held his heart? Where they still waiting outside perhaps, or had they left with the thought that d’Artagnan had truly betrayed them all?

“In answer to your first question,” the Baron’s conversation tones alerted d’Artagnan, “ _because I can_. Because I wish to see the lengths my power and influence can stretch over my fellow man. Because it amuses me. But mostly because it was convenient. I needed to dispose of the Comte and you came so willing into my home, practically glowing with naivety and innocence, so dutiful and honour-bound. Practically begging me to take you apart. With such an opportunity, so freely offered, I simply could not refuse. Anne’s affairs were nowhere near as delicious as your desire to shield your brothers from the consequences of their actions. The cards simply fell where they lay, it was too perfect for me to say otherwise.” The Baron moved closed to the shackled Gascon, so that there was barely a few inches between them. 

“I spoke true when I said I admire the bond between soldiers, truly a remarkable wonder to behold. I have had Dukes and Marquises, Comtesses and Viscounts all bent to my will, but none have I enjoyed so much as your misguided sense of honour,” Longepierre mused as his hand came to rest upon d’Artagnan’s throat, gently but making his threat clear. 

“Some claim that the thrill of holding a man’s life in your hands is unparalleled; watching as the light leaves his eyes, stealing away those last breaths from his throat as he slips away, grasping the power over life and death itself.” The Baron squeezed his grip a little, cutting of d’Artagnan’s air slightly, just enough to make the Gascon choke. Due to the Baron’s weak hands, his grip was not as strong as another man’s would’ve, but his fingernails were painfully sharp, digging into the skin like small sharp daggers. 

“They are _fools_. True power is when you hand a man a pistol, tell him to kill himself,” Longepierre whispered fiercely, tightening his grip for a moment before he released d’Artagnan’s throat. “ _And he does_.”

“You’re insane,” d’Artagnan croaked hoarsely as he heaved deep breaths, his mind reeling at the remorseless evil surging through the man before him.

“I am a diplomat, a business man like any other. I simply deal in a more lucrative market.”

“Why are you a Baron then?” d’Artagnan wondered, voicing his scattered thoughts without filtering them. “You could be a Comte or Marquis with the wealth and influence you’ve gathered.” 

“I prefer the anonymity, empires are forged in the shadows, little d’Artagnan; no one is what they seem at face value, not even the men you are so willing to give your life for.” Longepierre tutted, threading his fingers through d’Artagnan’s blood matted locks, tugging sharply making the young Gascon hiss at the pain that radiated through his skull. “It is rare for a man to die as nobly as your death will be d’Artagnan,” the Baron pondered lightly, “you should be thanking me.” 

“I hope you burn in the deepest fires of hell,” d’Artagnan snarled through clenched teeth, spitting viciously at the Baron’s face. 

“Do not disrespect me…” Longepierre spoke calmly as his grip upon d’Artagnan’s throat once again, causing the young musketeer to grit his teeth as the sharp pain. “One word from me and I will see to it that Aramis is tortured mercilessly until he speaks the truth.”

“You promised you would leave them be,” d’Artagnan growled out.

“That I did.." the Baron frowned,"but I said nothing of your sweet little draper’s wife…” 

“ _Leave her alone_ ,” d’Artagnan spoke with the coldest of tones, Longepierre would not go anywhere near Constance. “You do not touch her!” The musketeer raged against his shackles as the Baron stepped just out of d’Artagnan’s reach.

“Ah, so there is a little fight left if you, how delightful,” Longepierre smiled a little, “I give you my word that I shall, so long as I see you stand upon that scaffold tomorrow…”

“Where else am I to go…?” d’Artagnan snarled as he sunk back against the wall, exhausted and weary from the past few days.

“Good boy.”  

 

 

†††

 

Dawn came both faster and slower than d’Artagnan would have liked. It was in these moments that the young musketeer finally understood why Athos had been so eager for the firing squad to take their shots all those months ago. For death was not the maddening part of a death sentence – it was the waiting. 

Waiting to die was a feeling unlike any d’Artagnan had felt before. Sure, he had feared for his life on several occasions, not often enough in Athos’ eyes, but there had been close moments where the young musketeer had been unsure if the next action would be his last.

But that was in the chaos of a fight, or upon an assignment for the King and their Captain. To die their would have been a soldier’s death. To swing from a rope was a dishonour d’Artagnan had never thought to be associated with. His name would live in the grim and dirt of the Parisian streets, all his great deeds forgotten for the one that cemented his fate. 

Once pulled from his cell, d’Artagnan learnt that he had indeed been in the Châtelet that evening, though in which part he could not be certain.

The crowd that had gathered in the courtyard of the prison was larger than most execution crowds he had seen, so there was something to be chuffed about – look at all the charming people who wanted to watch him die.

Positioned before the crowd with a noose around his neck he sighed and stepped up upon the block, ready to deliver his last words.

God knew his crimes and would punish him for it. Though d’Artagnan hoped he could seek forgiveness and join see his parents once again, he knew this may not be the case. He had met an Irishman one night in a tavern, who had told him as he left ‘ _may you be in Heaven a half hour before the devil knows you’re dead’_. At this moment he was really hoping Irish sayings proved right. 

At the corner of his eye, d’Artagnan could see the executioner coming closer, “see you in hell, musketeer,” the hooded man grunted as he kicked out the block beneath his feet.

The split second of weightlessness was oddly serene before the sharp burn across his throat cut through him painfully, dropping him heavily, not enough to break his neck, but enough to hurt.  

 “D’Artagnan!” he heard Athos bellow across the crowd, though it only distantly as he struggled to breathe, he knew it was futile. This was his end, gasping, writhing against the roped and chains that bound him tight, stealing his breaths before he could even gasp onto them.  

“Stop! Cut him down!” A woman’s voice rang out high above the rumble of the crowd, “this man is innocent! I have proof!” She pushed her way past bustling shoulders and stoic bystanders, waving a piece of paper above her head as if it were a white flag before an invading army.

“Cut him down!” Athos roared as the three pushed the crowd back to allow the elderly woman through.

The executioner grunted but reacted quickly nonetheless, cutting the rope, allowing d’Artagnan to fall upon the scaffold like a bag of flour. 

“Magritte?” d’Artagnan’s eyes widened at the sight of the Baroness rushing up the scaffold’s staircase, heaving gulped breaths as he struggled to sit upright.  

“Take this wretched thing from him, at once,” Magritte demanded as she knelt down beside him, though her hands were already loosening the noose and taking it over his head, tossing it away. 

“ _No_ , what are you doing?” d’Artagnan’s heart spiked with fear as he eyes looked around the crowds, “the Baron, he will –“ 

“Hush dear,” Magritte sighed wearily, cupping d’Artagnan’s cheek softly as she kissed his temple with all the affection of a loving mother, tears collecting in her eyes. “It is done. He cannot hurt us anymore.” 

“No his men, his spies!” d’Artagnan panicked.

“All is well,” she soothed, threading her fingers gently through is hair, careful to avoid the bloodied gash, “just follow my lead in these matters, and say nothing of the Comte’s death, it was the _Baron_ who killed that man, not you, _promise me_.”

“I promise,” d’Artagnan found his mouth responding before he had even fully comprehended the words the Baroness spoke.

 

†††

 

“This is an utter mockery of justice!” The Judge from d’Artagnan’s trial stood before the King, pacing angrily as he glared at the d’Artagnan.

Though Magritte had claimed him innocent, the guards had not been so easily convinced and as such had not removed d’Artagnan’s manacles, nor had they allowed him to talk with his musketeer brothers. But Athos, Porthos and Aramis had not let d’Artagnan out of their sight for a moment, following closely behind as they made their way to the Palace.

“The trial has been conducted, this man has been found guilty of his crimes!” The Judge growled out as he pointed toward d’Artagnan.

“As this matter concerns one of _my_ Musketeers, Judge Archambeau, I find it highly disrespectful that his trial be conducted and sentenced without my authority.” The King looked down at the man before him from his chair with little 

“But your Majesty –”

“ _Now,_ ” Louis turned to the others in the room, blatantly ignoring the Judge, “will someone explain why one of my finest musketeers was due to be executed while I was away?”  

“He was forced into silence by my husband, Baron de Longepierre’s wicked tongue.” Magritte stepped forward, addressing the King with deep respect and reverence.

“And what could the Baron possibly have against a King’s Musketeer that would cripple him so?” The Cardinal posed inquiringly, his icy stare surveying the young musketeer with a renewed interest.

D’Artagnan froze as all eyes turned upon him. His heart dropped slightly as he saw the corner he had been backed into. But he was in far too deeply now to stop now. He had been prepared to lay down his life for his brothers, if he must also lay down his pride and the honour brought by his name, then he would perform this task. 

“The Baron…” he began, looking around the room, testing the words, his throat his hoarse as saw from the noose but he carried on regardless, “discovered a personal affair between myself and a lady at court – I beg you let her keep her dignity and anonymity,” he quickly added, preying the King would not pry too deeply. “At the time we believed her to be with my child,” d’Artagnan told the story slowly so as to keep the details vague and completely within his control. He kept his gaze directly at the King, knowing that if he were to look at Aramis or the Queen, his tongue may see his downfall. “This lady loves her husband dearly, your Majesty, and I couldn’t bare to allow our brief flirtation to affect her and our child so.”

“Truly?” The Cardinal purred as if somehow stumbling across some excitement within the Gascon’s confession, causing d’Artagnan to mentally kick himself for how close his own lies had come to the truth. Had not Longepierre told him of the Cardinal’s suspicions? Though better on him than Aramis, that was something at least. 

 “Longepierre threatened to go to the lady’s husband if…” d’Artagnan met the Baroness’ gaze, remembering her words upon the scaffold as he continued, “I did not answer for the murder he had committed before my very eyes.”

“Longepierre’s wife has a written confession signed by the Baron himself, it bears his seal.” Tréville put forward, handing the letter over for the King to inspect. “In it he explains his blackmailing pursuits and his guilt over the part d’Artagnan was forced to play.”

 _Written confession_ , d’Artagnan’s ears pricked up at the words, though a sharp look from the Baroness had a veiled blank expression upon his face in an instant. Though he was suddenly so very grateful for breaking that expensive teapot that morning.

“At the time, you say?” Louis cocked his head to one side, looking at the young musketeer in an odd manner. 

“Pardon, your Majesty?” d’Artagnan looked up politely.

“She is not with child, as you so thought?”

“I have very recently be informed otherwise,” d’Artagnan finished, catching the Cardinal’s eye deliberately in hopes that it would remove the suspicion upon him. “In the confusion, I had not spoken to her in some time, but she has just informed me that she was mistaken and there was never a child.”

“And what of Longepierre?” The King wondered, “May he not make this confession himself?” 

“He is dead, your Majesty,” Magritte whimpered her response through weeping eyes, “the guilt of his misdeeds took a hold of his mortal soul and he killed himself early this morning, with naught but his confession to absolve him and Monsieur d’Artagnan…” 

“Well then, this is simple,” Louis shrugged, before adding in his casual cheerful manner, “d’Artagnan, I hereby absolve you of your accused crimes.”

A cool breeze of relief swept over the young Gascon in such a wave that he would have fallen if not for the strong grip of the guards’ hands upon his shoulders.

He was free. Just like that? How could that be so…?  

“Dismissed,” The King waved off, prompting the patrons of the court to shuffle towards the doors.

“Your Majesty – “ the Cardinal tried, but the King cut him off.   

“The matter is dismissed, Cardinal, I hardly see any reason to continue further…” Louis told his advisor sharply.

Richelieu’s eyes stared sharply at d’Artagnan as if wishing to say something, but knowing it was neither the place nor the time. 

A rustle of chains saw d’Artagnan freed on his metal shackles, causing him to rub his aching wrists. Two days in prison had not been kind on him.

“Come with me, dear,” a small voice whispered by his side as d’Artagnan felt his elbow tugged toward the side door of the room. 

Out in the vacant corridor, d’Artagnan finally had a chance to take a breath.  

“You will probably be needing this back.” 

Tears formed in d’Artagnan’s eyes as he saw the leather doublet in her hands, his pauldron shining brightly upon it. “ _Thank you_.” He told her whole-heartedly, scooping the older woman in his arms, hugging her tight.   

“You saved my life.” He whispered softly in her ear.

“It is I who should be thanking you, dear,” Magritte cupped both side of the young Gascon’s face, placing a gentle kiss upon his forehead as she delicately thumbed away the fallen tears upon he cheek. “You showed me a kindness I thought lost to the world.” 

“You saved them all, I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you,” d’Artagnan told her as he shrugged on the leather doublet, utterly comforting in its familiar weight and feel. It was as if a part of him had been torn from him only to be finally restored.

“Perhaps you could visit me sometime,” Magritte wondered softly, “I plan to stay in Paris now but I admit the company would be wonderful.”

“Of course,” d’Artagnan promised as he kissed her hands, only just realising how violently his own hands had been trembling as the Baroness thumbed them gently in attempts to calm him.

“You’re alright dear, all is well…” she soothed gently, smoothing his wayward locks.

“ _D’Artagnan_!” the young musketeer could hear Porthos at the end of the corridor.

“Athos, I found him!” 

D’Artagnan ducked his head as he heard his brothers storm towards him. As much as he was desperate to be back in their company, he knew there was a lot he had to tell them and a lot he did not want to talk about.

“Madame,” Athos eyed the Baroness with ample suspicion as they three rounded on the young musketeer and the elderly woman. “Who are you and how do you know d’Artagnan?”

“Charming as ever,” Aramis sighed under his breath, though the others heard him easily. 

“I’m the Baroness de Longepierre,” Magritte told Athos without appearing intimidated in the least. 

“I broke her teapot,” d’Artagnan replied truthfully, his tone lacking of any humour or jest. He was still confused as to why he was not currently being buried in an unmarked grave outside the city walls. Everything had happened so quickly he had barely had a moment to understand it all.

“Please tell me that’s not a euphemism…” Porthos smirked a little, attempting to meet d’Artagnan’s gaze but failed. 

“I am old enough to be the boy’s grandmother,” Magritte frowned deeply with an unimpressed expression. 

“Perhaps not the time, my friend,” Aramis noted quietly, as he patted Porthos upon the shoulder. 

“I shall let you get back to your family,” Magritte turned back to d’Artagnan who had not moved since the trio had arrived, “come by anytime my dear and once your dear brothers learn some manners, they are welcome also.” 

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan told her sincerely as he watched her leave down the corridor.

“Are you alright?” Athos appeared right before d’Artagnan the moment the Baroness had left, checking over the young musketeer wearily.

“A few bruises, nothing more,” d’Artagnan replied honestly, feeling guilty for the way that Athos’ fingers immediately trailed the rope burn across the base of his throat. The line was barely noticeable and would disappear in a few days, but the anguish it must have caused the elder musketeer cause a guilt-ridden feeling in his chest.

Looking around at the trio it was clear these last few days had not been easy on them either. All three were showing signs of sleep deprivation and a bone deep weariness that came only with intense worry.

“What the hell are these?” Athos growled as his fingers found the crescent cuts along the Gascon’s neck where the Baron had dug his nails in the previous evening.  

“I’m fine, really,” d’Artagnan brushed off meekly, really just wanting to crawl into a dark place and sleep for a week.

“You just narrowly escaped your own execution, of course you’re not alright.” Athos muttered tersely under his breath as his cautious touch reached toward the bloodied mattered hair that covered the small gash upon his head.

“Have you slept?” Aramis frowned, stepping forward as he caught Athos’ gaze, “when was the last time – “

“D’Artagnan?” a gentle voice called out through the corridor, alerting their attentions as the Queen strode towards them.

“Your Majesty,” all four nodded their heads in deep respect, stepping aside so that none show the Queen their back. 

“Leave us,” the Queen ordered her entourage of ladies, who quickly curtsied and left their Queen and the musketeers.

“Oh come here,” she sighed, collecting the young Gascon in her arms much to the complete surprise of the three other men in the hallway.  “Forgive me for the pain I have caused you.” 

“You…?” Athos frowned as he turned to look at a rather guilty looking d’Artagnan, who was blushing bright red at the outright affection the Queen had shown him, stepping back to stand beside his brothers.

“Longepierre was threatening me, I sent d’Artagnan to deliver a missive and somehow allowed him to be pulled into the Baron’s cruel web,” Anne explained with a tense expression. “I had no idea the extent of the matter until Tréville came to the throne room this morning, as soon as his Majesty returned from his hunting trip, demanding a stay of execution and a retrial,” she told them softly. “I know I should have waited to confront Longepierre, but it was an urgent and timely matter.” 

“Better me than you, your Majesty,” d'Artagnan offered quietly. 

“I’ll have none of that,” Anne scolded, sounding rather like an elder sister to her rebellious younger brother. “I cannot begin to fathom what you said to sway his intentions.”

“Indeed,” Athos deepened his frown as he watched d’Artagnan with a guarded expression.

To this d’Artagnan shrugged, “I never really understood it, it all happened so quickly. But I don't think I _did_ anything, I think he did it simply because he wanted to.”

This revelation did not sit too well with the trio of musketeers surrounding him.

“Your Majesty,” d’Artagnan suddenly paled as a particularly cruel thought jolted his heart, “the Baron, he still – “

“He is dead d’Artagnan, it is over,” the Queen told him gently.

“He had letters, letters of yours sent to… an _acquaintance_ ,” d’Artagnan stressed, meeting the Queen’s gaze desperately as he sent a brief look at Aramis before raising his eyebrows slightly in a hesitant gesture. Though he was positive all those around him knew of the secret he had tried to protect with his life, d’Artagnan still couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud. As if by speaking it would truly make it so. Also if he had learnt anything over the past few days, it was that the walls had ears, you could never truly be certain of whom was listening, particularly in the palace.

“I have never sent any letters of that kind, d’Artagnan,” the Queen said slowly, clearly unappreciative of d’Artagnan’s accusations and had he been anyone else in that moment, he was sure he would have been strung up once more in the hangman’s noose. 

“But I saw –” he began but the realisation hit him harder than a stiff right hook. “He… _he_ _lied_ …” d’Artagnan breathed as if all the air in his lungs had been pushed out.

It was remarkable after all the wicked and loathsome things the Baron had said and done, that _lying_ was the one that seemed so unbelievable. That d’Artagnan had been taken in by the monster’s lies so easily.   

“What was that?” Athos questioned intently.

“Nothing, it doesn’t matter now…” d’Artagnan sighed a heavy breath of relief; it was as thought he had been holding it in since Longepierre had whispered his cruel lies. Yet this relief gave way to something far more sickening –that the Baron had cruelly manipulated d’Artagnan into a noose for no reason.

“I am glad you are safe,” the Queen smiled warmly, as she gave him a small nod in thanks, “I am in your debt, d’Artagnan.”

“I was simply doing what any musketeer would have done,” he informed her modestly, though his heart and mind still reeled from his carelessness.

A nauseatingly horrid thought crawled up through the dark pit in his stomach. He had been mere moments away from being hanged for a stupid lapse in judgement. His own stupidity and gullibility had almost cost him his life. Had it not been for Magritte, he would have died that morning, simply because he had fallen for the Baron’s wicked lies.

His breath quickened in his chest as his ear rung above the dull thud of his heart. The only thing that had kept him partially sane these past few days was the knowledge that he had been protecting his brothers, protecting them just as they had always protected him. His determination and self-assured righteousness against the Baron had only held strong because he knew it was for them.

But to discover that it had all been a pointless trick – that his sacrifice would have been for nought, only aiding the Baron’s sick desires to watch him hang – almost crippled him.

All of a sudden the walls were too enclosed, all four slamming into him as though they were taking all the air from the room. The heat was stifling; constricting him as those that noose was still around his idiotic neck.

“Are you alright?” the Queen frowned as she watched the young musketeer grow paler.

“Excuse me,” d’Artagnan choked as felt he could not contain the nausea rising within him, dashing away through the corridor with three musketeers quickly on his trail.

 

†††

 

He ran.

He needed to get out, needed to leave, needed to get away from it all. He was so _angry_ and frustrated that he felt he might burst.

It a few minutes before his speed slowed and he found himself in avenue of tall trees. Heaving in short, sharp breaths, d’Artagnan yelled out in frustration, body trembling as he paced back and forth, utterly at a loss as to what to do.

The Baron was dead, it was not as if he could seek his revenge. To tell anyone of his stupidity would put the Queen and his brothers at risk. To tell them would reveal his doubt in them…

It was a mess and he couldn’t deal with keeping it bottled up inside. Secrets were not in his nature, he just could not do it. 

“D’Artagnan!” Athos cried out as he ran towards the boy, gathering him up in his arms in an attempt to sooth this violent anger.

 

“He lied, he _fucking_ lied,” d’Artagnan growled into Athos’ chest, vibrating physically with the anger that coursed through his entire body, tears rolling uncontrollably down his cheeks as he clenched his teeth. 

“You’re okay,” Athos lulled the boy in his arms softly, though whether it was for d’Artagnan or himself remained unknown, “you’re okay.”  

“Calm your breaths,” Aramis said soothingly as he appeared with Porthos by their side, sounding a little out of breath themselves. “You’ll pass out if you keep breathing this way.” 

D’Artagnan tried to ease his heaving breaths, stepping away from Athos to allow the air into his chest.

“You okay now?” Aramis asked softly.

D’Artagnan starred at the three men before him for a moment, wishing he could somehow stop the maddening emotions coursing through his body.

“ _Argh_!” d’Artagnan growled in frustration as he went to punch is white-knuckled fist into a nearby tree, however Porthos quickly caught the fist in his larger hand, pulling the young angry musketeer away from his leafy target.

“Not a good idea,” Porthos told him gently, moving so that he should stood between d’Artagnan and the tree, “you’ll only break your hand that way.”

“I want to kill him,” d’Artagnan gasped, dropping his hands against his knees as he bent over, trembling. “I want to kill him.”

“I could’ve, I had the opportunity, but I didn’t,” d’Artagnan revealed.

“Then that makes you a better man than he,” Aramis told the young musketeer.

D’Artagnan laughed at this, but it was hollow and jaded, unlike his usual laughter, “no, it really doesn’t.”

For d’Artagnan knew in his heart that had he known the Baron was simply bluffing, he would have killed the Baron that day, without a touch of remorse.

Feeling a jolt in his gut, d’Artagnan forced himself into the bushes, retching though there was nothing in his stomach to bring up, so it was just sickening bile that burnt his throat. Aramis was by his side instantly, comforting the younger musketeer.    

“What did the Baron say that would force you to the gallows?” Athos asked after a moment, as d’Artagnan’s gagged quietened. “You lied to the King and court just now, _why_?” 

“It doesn’t matter, it was true…“ d’Artagnan moaned meekly, his complexion almost tinted green.

“Leave him be,” Aramis sighed, rubbing d’Artagnan’s back in hopes to quell the younger’s nausea. “You of all people should allow him his privacy, after all the secrets you’ve had.”

“I also know the danger in keeping them,” Athos shot back. 

“Look, I understand your concern,” Aramis stood up as he addressed Athos, Porthos kneeling down to relieve Aramis’ care of d’Artagnan, “but this is no time for an interrogation.”

“When’s the last time you ate lad?” Porthos sighed wearily as he helped the young musketeer off the ground.

D’Artagnan paused in thought as the question washed over him, leaning heavily against Porthos. “What day is it?”

“See?” Aramis turned to Athos, “let him be, he needs sleep and food.”

Athos nodded without another word, moving off through the tall trees back toward the palace, with Aramis followed.

D’Artagnan knew this was his chance to seek forgiveness from his brothers, Aramis especially.

“Longepierre claimed that the Queen…” d’Artagnan began softly causing the them to pause and turn back to the stoic Gascon, “and Aramis –“

“ _Aramis_?” Athos growled his voice suddenly cold and undistinguishable as he glanced at the musketeer by his side.

“I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan turned to Aramis, seeking the older musketeer’s forgiveness in his eyes and with his words. “I should’ve _known_ , I should have trusted that you would never…” he trailed off, losing confidence in his voice as he felt a heavy dagger of guilt pierce his chest. 

“Never what?” Porthos asked softly, slightly confused.

“The Baron said he had evidence to prove that the Queen’s child belonged to Aramis…” he revealed quietly, brows knitted, beseeching absolution for his doubt.

“And that is what kept your silence?” Aramis paled visibly, his voice had gone eerily hollow.

“This is what you almost gave your life for?” Athos’ tone was both cold and tight, straining to comprehend the information revealed.

“He said you all knew, that you would all surely hang for the allowing it to happen…” d’Artagnan revealed guiltily, kicking himself for having been manipulated so easily by the Baron, “I should’ve known he was lying, but he seemed to know everything, he knew about Athos’ marriage to Milady, he knew about Bonaire, _Aramis_ , he even knew about Savoy…” 

“Lies are easy to swallow when they are swaddled in truth…” Porthos muttered darkly with frustration, looking as if he wanted to punch something - possible the tree he had stopped d'Artagnan from hitting earlier.   

“ _God_ …” Aramis’ voice wavered noticeably. He looked as though he would stumble upon his feet, though Athos’ tight grip upon his shoulder held him upright. Perhaps a little tighter than necessary if the wince upon Aramis’ face was anything to go by. 

“I’m so sorry,” d’Artagnan tried again, trying to get Aramis to look at him so that he could show him his apology was sincere.

“ _Please_ , do not apologise,” Aramis said quietly, his head hanging limp against his chest, seemingly held up only by Athos’ white-knuckled grip.

D’Artagnan was unsure whether Aramis’ shock was simply for the Gascon’s stupidity at being duped by the baron, or if he was deeply offended at the him doubting the elder musketeer’s character. Would he wish to duel over the offense to his honour? 

“Why did you not seek one of us out, to find the truth?” Porthos wondered in frustration, “A single word would have set this slander right.”

“There was no time,” d’Artagnan, “before I knew it the Comte lay dead at my feet and I was in irons bound for the Châtelet. Once there I had no way of reaching you before the trial…”

“Where the Baron stood watch…” Athos growled under his breath, clearly disturbed with the entire sequence of events. 

“I couldn’t risk it,” d’Artagnan said meekly, knowing it was rather poor as excuses went. 

“Lad, know this,” Porthos eyed the younger man, placing both hands upon d’Artagnan’s shoulders, “we would not hide something of this calibre from you. You are one of us and we would never risk your life for the concealment of a secret.” 

“I know,” d’Artagnan smiled meekly as the larger man pulled him in for a playful hug. “I’m sorry.” 

“Also you owe me thirty sous,” Porthos added with a sly grin as he put his arm around the young musketeer.

“What? Why?” d’Artagnan frowned.

Porthos gave the Gascon a hard look, “ _this_ ,” he gestured around them, “definitely counts as getting yourself into trouble.”

“Oh, right.”

“Yeah, and you should also go around to the Bonacieux residence tomorrow, after you’ve slept, eaten and bathed,” Porthos chuckled, “Constance wasn’t too impressed when she left the garrison yesterday.”

“Oh…”

“She slapped Athos,” Porthos told him, “ _hard_.”

D’Artagnan winced at the thought, “sor –“ 

“Is not a word I’m allowing you to say at the moment,” Porthos gave him a stern look as they made their way back to the palace, with Aramis and Athos trailing behind a little way, involved in some quiet discussion the others could not hear. Porthos allowed his gaze to peer back at them from time to time, but he kept his focus upon the young Gascon who was falling asleep against him as they walked. 

Though the tension between Athos and Aramis grew slightly over the next few days, d’Artagnan let them be, he knew whatever their issue would pass in time. He was just glad to know that his brothers were safe and far away from the manipulative hands of the late Baron de Longepierre. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading!!!!! And thank you to everyone who has followed this story :) I really hope you enjoyed them :) Review and let me know what you thought :D


	7. d'Artagnan ( Athos' POV )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which d'Artagnan learns the dangers of keeping secrets (Athos' POV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah…I'm back... I thought I was finished with this… haha apparently not :) 
> 
> So I realised I kinda left things a little ambiguously on that last chapter and a few people were asking for a POV from one of the others to tie up all the loose ends… so voilà :) Ask and ye shall receive haha 
> 
> Thank you so much for the continued support for this fic, couldn't have done it without all the kind words and wonderful critiques :) I'm still new to this fandom and super bad at proof reading so it's always handy to have people point them out so I can fix them :) 
> 
> Hope this is what people wanted :) (sorry if it's not… :0 )
> 
> Language warning again, not too much but still there :)

“Hypothetical question…” Aramis posed whimsically as their horses walked leisurely along the dusty road back to Paris. For miles there had been nothing but the sound of hooves upon the rocky track as the warm sun midday sun beat down upon them.

“ _No_ ,” Athos grumbled in frustration as he found himself slightly lulled by the ebb and flow of his horse’s casual stride.

Once reaching Vendôme, the trio had stayed the night at the Duke’s luxurious estate, each treated as though they were noble guests, rather than soldiers. And while the extravagance was little more than an inconvenience for Athos – much preferring simplicity over grandeur – both Porthos and Aramis delighted in the elegance and ceremony in their honour.

There they bid farewell to the Duke and Duchess – and their irritating little shadow François – and set out at first light.

With a fast pace they had made excellent time on their journey so far. However, there was only so much the animals could take in the warm weather, resulting in long stretches of slow ambling to cool the panting geldings. This also left for a period of quiet and calm, which Aramis seemed to want to fill with pointless chatter.

“I didn’t even ask a question,” Aramis frowned with a playfully put out expression upon his face as he gazed over at the scowling musketeer.

“Hypothetical questions are one of two things, and I shan’t answer either,” Athos retorted simply, keeping his eyes on the long road ahead. Paris could be seen in the horizon, it’s high building and grandeur illuminating even from such a distance.

Though Athos had grown up surrounded by the beauty of La Fère’s rich green hills, there was no longer a sense of belonging to the land or people there, not like the one he felt when entering the walls of Paris. The smell of freshly baked bread, the soft rumble of people and animals moving about rhythmically, the dull ease of calm as he walked the city’s streets. Paris had an unconscious warmth that La Fère never did.

Paris truly felt like home.

“Which two things?” Porthos wondered curiously. He was clearly thankful for an opportunity at conversation, as they had been walking in silence for a few minutes with no reprieve.

“Aramis either wishes me to answer a question he feels he cannot ask directly, hence the need for a hypothetical situation, or – and this is the more likely – he wants to start an inane line of interrogation in an effort to relieve his boredom…”

“It’s just a harmless game, Athos,” Aramis sighed, “it’ll pass the time.”

“It’s a pointless drivel,” Athos murmured as he spurred his horse a little to speed its step.

“D’Artagnan always plays,” Aramis teased a little, in hopes that he could entice Athos to play along.

“D’Artagnan isn’t here,” Athos stated the obvious in attempts to conclude the conversation once and for all.

“Is that why you’re grumpy?” Porthos chuckled slightly with a wicked smirk.

To this Athos returned a look towards Porthos that said, ‘ _you cannot possibly be serious_ …’

“It was an act of mercy to all when the Captain removed d’Artagnan from the Duke’s escort,” Athos told them honestly, with a small hidden smile, “If I had to spend another day around the petty feud of d’Artagnan and that bratty child, I would’ve have contemplated shooting myself.”

“S’not the lad’s fault that kid was an arse,” Porthos pointed out with a slight curl of his lips in amusement, “but true, those two were like a bomb waiting to go off, five more minutes and it would’ve ended in blood.”

“Maybe we should’ve let them have it out? D’Artagnan would’ve beat the boy easily –“ Aramis pondered but was quickly cut off.

“And have the wrath of the Duke and Duchess of Vendôme to contend with...?” Athos finished smoothly, bestowing a curious look to Aramis, silently scolding the man for his ill thought through idea. “D’Artagnan finds trouble easily enough without a vendetta with a powerful Duke.”

To this Aramis gave a heavy nod, well versed in the Gascon’s luck for trouble.

“Twenty livre says he’s been in a fight, at least,” Porthos proposed to the others, leaning forward casually on his saddle.

“You don’t have twenty livre,” Aramis shot back coolly, adjusting his hat nonchalantly to keep the glare of the sun from his eyes.

“I will when d’Artagnan loses this bet,” Porthos chuckled, “that boy could find trouble in a locked room.”

“Well if you win your bet, remind me to put your theory into practice,” Athos mused under his breath as he gazed forward to the city beyond. A small niggling feeling pulled at the back of his mind nervously. Though he brushed it away the moment he felt it. It was unfair of him to think d’Artagnan could not deal with a few days alone in Paris. The boy was a truly not a boy but a grown man, a commissioned Musketeer, beyond capable of handling any situation by himself. But there was still a part of him that worried for the young Gascon, feeling a sense of responsibility for him. A part of him that felt a touch apprehensive of what state he would find their youngest musketeer in.

 

†††

 

It wasn’t until they reached the outer gates of the garrison that Athos’ instincts began to sense something amiss. Though there were no visual cues to alert him of potential threats, he still could not shake the feeling that not all was as they had left it two days prior.

“Captain,” Athos announced reverently he caught sight of Tréville in the courtyard, hurriedly pulling himself into his saddle.

“ _Don’t_ get off your horses, you’re coming with me,” the Captain called over to them gruffly as they entered the courtyard.

Without a word of explaination, the Captain rode off into the training yard, the trio following dutifully as instructed. Though Athos wished for clarification, he knew it was best to wait until the Captain saw fit to do so.

The streets were characteristically busy, given the time of day. Market stalls and city dwellers ambled leisurely in their path, making it difficult to ride with a steady pace, though horseback was far more preferable than walking upon the ground in this area of the city.

“What is going on?” Athos asked the Captain as they dismounted before the Eastern courthouse. The building was large an imposing but not often used in smaller trials, peeking Athos’ interest as to what could possibly warrant their attentions so direly.

“I am going to ask you three to remain civil and level-headed once we enter,” the Captain ordered them tersely, standing before the large doors to block their entrance. “I am doing all that I can, but this situation is quickly falling out of my hands. I can not afford to worry about the three of you adding further fuel to this chaotic pyre.”

“We will be civil,” Aramis promised dutifully, though a little apprehensive about what their Captain was asking this of them. Porthos gave a small nod also, catching Aramis’ gaze in silence enquiry.

However as the Captain turned to Athos for his word, the musketeer saw something in Tréville’s gaze than stilled his heart: _guilt_. What could possibly cause such a look from the Captain? It was not an expression readily seen in the eyes of their Captain and one that Athos was not entirely comfortable witnessing.

“Whose trial is this?” Athos asked slowly, dangerously as his gaze levelled that of Tréville.

“D’Artagnan’s,” Tréville revealed with a heavy heart, the remorseful expression aging him beyond his years.

“ _What_?” Porthos growled, his calm attitude vanishing instantly mirroring that of the two men at his sides.

“It’s been gone, what, twelve hours, what the hell could he had done?” Aramis gapped, glancing at the courthouse in shock.

To this Tréville lowered his head to shadow his features, pursing his lips slightly before meeting their eyes.

“Murder.”

“He didn’t do it,” Athos argued instantly with a firm, unwavering tone. D’Artagnan was a man of honour. Though often brash and prideful, the Gascon’s temper had been softening since his arrival in Paris. The young musketeer was improving greatly at separating his feelings from his duty.

“Don’t start –“ Tréville began but was quickly interrupted.

“Was it self defence? The Cardinal’s guards are–“ Aramis wondered, regardless of the Captain’s warnings.

“ _Aramis_ , d’Artagnan has confessed to murdering a Comte in cold blood, there were several witnesses.”

The Captain’s tone was cold and regretful, causing a sinking feeling to build in the pit of Athos’ stomach; Tréville was doubtful of d’Artagnan. Though Athos knew Tréville would stand by the young musketeer until proven guilty, the Captain’s doubt did not bode well in Athos’ eyes.

“I won’t believe it unless he tells me himself,” Athos replied stubbornly, his mind swam achingly with the Captain’s revelation.

“Athos, you promised me civility,” Tréville sighed with a weary tone.

Athos clenched his jaw though refrained from informing the Captain he had made no such promise.

“Comte de la Marche, does that name mean anything to you? Has d’Artagnan ever mentioned him before?”

“No, not that I can recall,” Athos frowned. He searched his memories for any trace of that name, but he came up blank.

“I demanded a trail, but with the King away I could not delay the proceedings any further. My hands are tied.” Tréville told them with a tone of heavy regret, pulling the door open to allow them access to the courthouse.  
Aramis and Porthos nodded stoically before entering through the doors, the jovial moods from that morning extinct without a hint of what had been.

Before the Captain could move, Athos held the man’s arm.

“D’Artagnan did not do this,” he told Tréville with unwavering faith.

“Then let us hope the truth is revealed.”

 

†††

 

The courtroom was wide and open, brightly lit from the large glass windows on one side. It was completely the opposite of the rooms in which Porthos had been trailed though far less grandiose than the courtroom of Ninon de Larroque. Tréville stood before the trio, a thin wooden rail dividing them. As the three had not been called to give evidence, they were excluded to the gallery for the entirety of the trial, leaving their Captain to handle any proceedings on their behalf.

“Judge Archambeau,” Athos muttered as he saw the aging man in dark robes slowly make his way to the large stand above the courtroom.

“Good or bad?” Porthos grunted, his arms tightly crossed against his chest as he surveyed the judge cautiously.

“It’s a damn sight better than the judge you were condemned to,” Athos revealed in a quiet murmur, giving the taller musketeer a knowing stare. Porthos knew first hand the burden of a bias judge. “Archambeau has a decent reputation for reasonable justice, d’Artagnan may be fortunate for that at least.”

“Who’s he talking to?” Porthos frowned, watching as another man approached the judge. The stranger was a rather oily looking gentleman, well on in years. Athos considered for a moment how the man seemed to have the features of a rodent; a rat-like smirk revealing sharp yellowing teeth. In a complete paradox of appearance, the man seemed to be robed in the greatest of finery, intricately stitched doublet of silks and lace with several jewelled rings upon his fingers. The man’s casual demeanour was intriguing, though Archambeau seemed uneasy by the man’s presence, the judge did nothing to discourage the odiously enthusiastic gentleman. On the contrary, Archambeau looked as though he was trying to please the gentleman before him, which made Athos curious to the mysterious stranger’s identity. This was not a man of poor expectations.

“That is the Baron de Longepierre,” Tréville informed them softly as his eyes trailed over to the richly dressed gentleman by the Judge’s side.

“Curiously extravagant for a Baron…” Athos drawled slowly. His lip curled as he examined the Baron with a suspicious eye.

“Look, I hate to play devil’s advocate here, but didn’t the lad try to kill Athos the first time we met?” Aramis muttered softly as the courtroom began to fill up with a sea of people.

Porthos glowered at the shorter man with silent fury.

Aramis went to defend his words, but was stopped as a door opened bringing forth a familiar – albeit a little dishevelled – young Gascon.

The guard that brought out d’Artagnan was merciless in his handling of the boy. White-knuckled hands fisted the thin cotton shirt that hung off the boy, making him look smaller and younger than ever. Thick iron manacles shackled d’Artagnan’s wrists tightly, clinking with each step he took.

A small part of Athos’ mind wondered where the Gascon’s leather jacket and pauldron had gone. Though he quickly ignored such thoughts, as they were not what was important.

D’Artagnan looked terrible, worst than when the young Gascon had spent a night in prison with Vadim. It was clear he hadn’t slept the previous evening; dark smudges beneath bleary unfocussed eyes told of a night spent in worry and anxiety.

“Does he look injured in any way?” Athos muttered under his breath, his eyes never left the boy.

“I can’t tell,” Aramis frowned as he bit his lip studying the young dishevelled musketeer in irons. “Other than his pretty little shiner,” the musketeer added with a concerned scowl.

A dark mottling bruise was painted across d’Artagnan’s temple and jawline, it didn’t look particularly bad though what worried Athos most was the fact that the boy seemed completely vacant; his eyes glassy and emotionless, no sense of worry nor fear nor anything. It was like the young Gascon’s mind had simply shut down. Was it shock?

“Years of battlefield medicine and ‘ _you can’t tell_ ’?” Athos chided in a low voice.

“It’s a lot easily to diagnose patients when they’re not across the other side of a crowded room,” Aramis defended in hushed tones, noticing the odd looks from the courtroom patrons around them as the official proceedings readied themselves to begin.

“He doesn’t look too good,” Porthos furrowed his brows as he took their youngest in his sights.

However their conversation came to a halt as the Judge alerted the courtroom’s attention with a timely bang of his gavel.

“I would ask for a delay in this trial’s proceedings,” Tréville stepped forward, standing just before the Judge’s stand.

“Denied.” The Judge replied at once, not even giving the request a moment’s thought.

“The King is away, I demand a delay so that I may seek clemency from his Majesty in this trial.”

“ _Denied_ , Captain,” the Judge retorted sternly, though his words seemed forced. “This is my courtroom and I shall see fit to make sure justice is carried out.”

“This is highly irregular!” The Captain cried out in frustration, his violent outburst echoing throughout the room, even d’Artagnan seemed to flinch at the volume.

“Indeed, this is irregular, Monsieur,” the Judge raised his voice to a roar, stern eyes taking in the crowd and the Captain before him, “this case, as I have learnt, is not one that requires my judgement. The boy confessed, Captain, I see no reason for a trial.”

“And how do you know this confession was not under duress?” Tréville stepped forward once more, seeking out justice with every fibre of his being.

Athos turned to take in the sight of the Gascon once more. D’Artagnan seemed so lost in the room, looking as though he was not even hearing the verbal battle being fought around him.

“The Baron has delivered his statement of the facts, he bares witness to d’Artagnan’s crime,” the Judge told the people of the court sternly.

“D’Artagnan is an honourable soldier in my ranks, it is completely out of character for him to commit such an act.”

“Be that as it may, Captain, if he confesses, he will be found guilty,” the Judge said quietly though his tone still held a powerful authority within the room. With his head held loftily, Archambeau turned his gaze upon the young musketeer in custody, surveying the Gascon with a guarded eye.

“Charles d’Artagnan, how do you plea in regards to your accused crimes?”

Athos held his breath as he watched d’Artagnan. The Gascon did not answer but rather glanced lazily around the room as if looking for something, he did not even seem to have heard the Judge’s request.

“ _Answer_ , boy,” Archambeau stressed.

It was then that d’Artagnan’s eye fell upon him. Athos froze as he held the Gascon’s stare. For a short moment, Athos swore the young musketeer was desperately trying to tell him something with nothing more than a searching gaze across a crowded room. D’Artagnan look desperate for Athos to read his thoughts and understand what it was he was trying to convey but all the elder musketeer could see was a frightened young boy, overwhelmed by the raging chaos around him.

With one last flicker of his eyes, d’Artagnan looked towards the Baron, his complexion paling slightly as he dropped his gaze to the floor in defeat.

“ _Guilty_ ,” d’Artagnan forced the words to leave his lips, seemingly disgusted and emotionally tortured by having to voice them aloud.

Anger boiled up within Athos like a berserker in the heat of battle. Someone was putting words in d’Artagnan’s mouth and stringing him up to take the fall for this crime.

“This makes no sense!” Athos roared aloud, unable to keep his temper under control.

“Ask him why!” Aramis beseeched, taking Athos’ fury as a sign to attack. “Demand he tell you why!”

“Stand down,” Tréville whispered harshly, urging them to keep a level head.

“This is ridiculous!” Porthos growled in response, slamming his open palm against he wooden railing.

“Keep your tongues, all or you, until you are called upon, or I shall have you have you all removed,” Archambeau scolded brashly, his fiery glare silencing the trio, though it did nothing to quell their tempers.

With that, Judge Archambeau turned to the condemned musketeer with renewed fury, “Charles d’Artagnan do you have anything else to say in your defence?”

“ _No_ ,” d’Artagnan murmured airily, back to a distant state of numbness.

“In that case, Charles d’Artagnan, I see no choice but to sentence you to death, sentence to be carried out tomorrow midday.”

The crowd around them exploded in a roar of conflicting emotions. Athos’ heart dropped instantly at the Judge’s verdict, slamming himself back into the crowd to fight his way through. He needed to see d’Artagnan. None of this made a lick of sense and d’Artagnan’s behaviour just now had made Athos almost certain of the Gascon’s innocence.

Athos could feel Aramis and Porthos by his side as he stalked towards the back of the room, grateful for their presence.

“Athos, Aramis, Porthos,” Tréville called after them as they pushed their way through the crowd, though they ignored the beckoning of their Captain.

They had to get to d’Artagnan before he was taken to the Châtelet. If they could have but a moment with the boy, Athos could know for certain if the Gascon had truly killed the Comte. Though he already knew d’Artagnan would never kill without warrant and just cause, the young musketeer was still slightly hotheaded and a strike made in self-defence was entirely plausible. And if so, Athos could force the issue further, eliminating the crimes held against the Gascon’s name and eradicating the death sentence upon his head.

Making their way through the winding corridors of the courthouse, they could hear several footsteps ahead and the chink of iron chains.

“D’Artagnan?” Aramis called out down the corridor, rushing forward in hopes to meet the young musketeer.

“Aramis?” d’Artagnan’s small voice sounded almost hopeful in the long ill-lit corridor.

The relief brought forth from the Gascon’s familiar voice was short lived as they turned the corner just in time to see d’Artagnan’s head crack painfully against the hard wall.

“D’Artagnan!” Porthos rushed forward to grab the Gascon, but the guards pulled their prisoner out of reach before the musketeer could reach him.

Athos held back with silent fury, verse all to well in the guards’ mistreatment towards their inmates. The blow had struck a painful jolt to his heart, though Athos could tell that the wound was nothing more than superficial, a nasty headache but nothing life threatening, nothing compared the hangman’s noose that loomed ominously.

“Oh dear the poor boy must have tripped,” the Baron yelped in a concerned expression and though the man played worried rather convincingly, Athos was none to compelled by the odious man’s displays of affection. “We must see to that immediately, guards if you will?”

The taller of the guards sniffed casually with a small nod, tugging the Gascon none too gently backward, d’Artagnan’s head dropping heavily against his chest, completely unaware of the situation.

“What are you doing back here?” Aramis glared at the Baron with suspicion.

“A simple mistake, Monsieur Aramis, I have not been in Paris long and I took a wrong exit in leaving this place,” Longepierre brushed off effortlessly, though none to bared witness to his excuse believe it for a moment, “Thankfully, I ran into these guards who were pointing me in the right direction.”

“How do you know me?” Aramis stepped back slightly, looking a little uneasy at being recognised so easily by the Baron. 

“By reputation only, I’m afraid,” the Baron smiled widely, though it seemed more to be a baring of teeth rather than a display of civility. “Tis a shame how life works out, I would have rather we were better acquainted you and I.”

“Exit’s that way,” Porthos snarled as he pointed at the door to the left, pushing Aramis back slightly as he used his height to tower over the Baron, staring down at Longepierre imposingly.

For a moment Athos wondered if Porthos was going to carry out his silent threats, but the musketeer seemed to do nothing further.

“I bid you good day, gentlemen,” the Baron nodded with a deep nod of farewell, though Athos saw the carefully concealed smirk that graced the Baron’s lips as the man dipped his head.

Athos knew there were foul beasts at work and seeing Longepierre in person only confirmed his suspicions. There was some greater game being played than the murder of some unknown Comte.

Though before he could voice his reservations, the Baron had taken his leave down the corridor. Athos felt his teeth grate unconsciously as he thought he heard the sound of the Baron beginning to hum merrily as he made his exit.

“Tripped my arse,” Porthos growled as the three stood watched the guards carry an unconscious d’Artagnan beyond their reach. “I’ll skin every last one of those bastards.”

“That won’t help d’Artagnan,” Athos told him with a heavy sigh as he continued to stare down the now vacant corridor.

“We need to talk to him,” Aramis agreed. “Find out what really happened.”

†††

The Châtelet prison had been an unwelcomingly familiar sight for the three men. Though they had been denied an audience with the Gascon on route to the prison, they hoped a visit to his cell could be possible.

However when they had arrived, the wardens had been told d’Artagnan had requested no visitors. Confused, Athos had berated the guards, trying all methods of intimidation and exploitation he could in hopes to gain entrance, but his efforts went in vain.

Furious, the three cut their losses and starting out to return to the garrison.

“Why would he not want to see us?" Porthos uttered aloud, completely shocked at the Gascon’s blatant refusal.

“This makes no sense!” Athos roared as he tore through the bustling streets of Paris, heading back to the garrison. “He did not do this! I could see it in his eyes at the courthouse, he was lying.”

“And why was he even at the Baron’s house?” Aramis wondered aloud, knitting his brows in deep thought as he replaced his hat upon his head. “It’s the other side of the city…”

“That Baron’s a right bastard too,” Porthos added, “what the hell was the lad doing around the likes of him?”

“Oh,” Aramis halted his pace abruptly as he noticed someone standing in the centre of the garrison courtyard, “can we not go in there,”

“Why not?” 

“Because I’m going to get slapped,” Aramis shot back, nodding to the angry looking woman pacing back and forth before them.

“Keep your mouth shut and you might not,” Athos noted in a slow drawl.

“Brilliant plan,” Aramis muttered sourly as they entered the courtyard, mentally preparing himself for the onslaught of verbal abuse he was bound for.

Constance Bonacieux was not a woman to cross. She was quick to temper and even quicker to lash out, particularly – as it seemed – when dealing with snarky musketeers. Though so often silenced by her husband, Constance was a strong and proud woman who fought for those she loved with a fiery vengeance, all the more so when it came to a certain puppy-eyed Gascon who had stolen her heart as she had his.

“Madame Bona – “ Athos began only to be shut up quickly by a sharp slap across his face. The burning flame that radiated across his cheek was almost enough to wince. It was clear the woman was looking for answers not pleasantries.

“ _You bastards_ ,” Constance growled fiercely as she pointed at each of them, “what the _hell_ have you gotten him into?”

“Such language from such a… “Aramis’ words faded midsentence as a fiery glare from the woman told him they were not welcome. “I shall not say another word,” he added with hands raised in gestured surrender.

“Wise,” Constance noted coldly before turning back to Athos, “why am I hearing that d’Artagnan is awaiting execution for _murder_?”

“Because he is,” Athos told her simply, feeling the truth was the best option, “we are doing all we can, but d’Artagnan confessed.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, why would he kill someone?” Constance asked them, making Athos feel as though the woman were voicing his very thoughts.

“We don’t know,” Athos sighed wearily, the afternoon had been a series of toppling questions that only seem to grow with each passing moment.

“I’m still not convinced he did it,” Porthos grunted, as he met Aramis’ eyes with a knowing stare.

“But if he didn’t do it why would he confess?” Constance furrowed her brow in thought, the stress and strain of recent events displaying clearly upon her face.

“We don’t know,” Athos repeated once more in a heavy drawl, feeling the weight of futility cripple him in his surrounding circumstances.

“You’re supposed to be his friends, how can you not know?” Constance asked the three men before her, levelling her gaze in concern with each.

“He has refuses to see us, even at his trial he wouldn’t talk to us,” Aramis told her with a heavy tone.

“Barely even noticed us,” Porthos added, sounded a little hurt but the Gascon’s actions in the courtroom.

“We have tried to seek an audience with him, but again he would not see us.” Athos informed her with a soft tone.

“Though perhaps he will see you…” Aramis told Constance before looking over to Athos, silently asking for the other man’s advice.

“Go,” Athos nodded, “if he talks send word for me immediately.”

 

†††

 

Pacing the length of his quarters was seemingly building the tension in his chest rather than dissuading it. The others had not returned for sometime and they had not sent word for him to join them, causing Athos to think the worst. With the sun sending its deep orange glow over the darkening city, the hours were running out for d’Artagnan. A bottle of fine vintage wine sat upon his table, cork still firmly set in its neck, though Athos had the feeling it would not stay that way for very long. If d’Artagnan continued to refused them, there would be not much else they could do but wait for the hangman to claim his victim and that was not something Athos believed he could witness sober.

Surely d’Artagnan knew they could help? Not matter the truth, they would not abandon him, not in his hour of need.

“You’re housekeeper let me in,” Tréville’s voice alerted Athos’ attention to the open door, instantly locking eyes with his Captain as the elder man entered the room.

“He didn’t do this,” Athos’ voice held strong though he began to feel as if he was simply repeating this phrase to centre himself.

“I’m not blind, Athos,” Tréville sighed tiredly, taking a seat at the table, “there are so many unknowns in this case I could not tell the facts if they were placed before me. Without his confession the entire case would have fallen through. The witness are all servants of the Baron, not one could keep a story straight when asked,” the Captain told Athos regretfully, “But I can’t fight this when d’Artagnan blatantly refuses aid.”

Tréville nodded in gesture to the bottle upon the table, asking Athos’ permission with a single glance. Athos relented with a wave of his hand, there was plenty more where that came from.

In the aching silence that enveloped the two occupants of the room, the Captain slowly uncorked the bottle, pouring the lapping liquid into a clean cup upon the table, replacing the bottle in its original position.

Athos continued to stare out the window while the Captain drank.

“The King –“ Athos turned back to Tréville.

“Isn’t due back until the morning.” The Captain shook his head with exhausted sorrow, taking a long sip of the dark liquid, staining his tongue and lips with rich burgundy.

“There may still be time,” Athos proposed desperately, grasping at straws as the countdown began to d’Artagnan’s execution.

“D’Artagnan confessed, Athos,” Tréville sighed wearily, “the boy seems intent on taking the punishment for this…”

“His punishment is the hangman’s noose!” Athos roared, unleashing the anger that he had controlled with relentless strength.

The eruption of fury echoed around the room for a moment as Athos clenched his teeth to subdue himself. The Captain was not the intended target for his anger and he knew better than to disrespect the man who had given him everything.

“Do you think I don’t know this…?” Tréville said quietly, his soft tones revealing the anguish and hurt he felt regarding the situation.

Feeling the need to apologise, Athos sighed as made his way over to the seated Captain, but stopped as he heard footsteps upon the stairs.

For a moment Athos tricked himself into thinking there were three pairs of heavy boots making their way up to his rooms, but seeing the sombre expressions of Aramis and Porthos confirmed Athos’ sour thoughts – d’Artagnan had not seen them.

“Any luck?” Tréville wondered as they entered the room, though Athos already knew the answer.

“None, apparently not even a visit from Madame Bonacieux will sway that stubborn kid.” Porthos grunted as he leaned back against the wall heavily, crossing his arms tightly.

“We sent her home,” Aramis informed them quietly, taking off his hat as he walked around the length of the room slowly. Somewhere along the course of the last few days he had lost the bounce in his step. Athos had not noticed it before, but now it was missing, it seemed obvious.

“I wouldn’t advice having her at the proceedings tomorrow,” the Captain spoke sombrely, “it is not something a woman should see.”

“It not something anyone should see,” Porthos murmured through clenched teeth.

“Do you think if would be beneficial for me to take a walk by the Châtelet?” Tréville proposed lightly.

Porthos gave a noncommittal shrug but then shook his head, “He won’t even allow a priest in for last confession.”

“Believe us, we tried.” Aramis sighed running his fingers wearily through his hair.

“D’Artagnan or the Baron…?” Athos snarled darkly under his breath, thinking back to vile man in the courthouse’s back corridors.

“What do you mean?” Tréville turned to the musketeer, his concerned expression turning curious.

“What do you know of Longepierre?” Athos wondered of his Captain.

“Relatively nothing, the first I’d even heard of him was at the trial,” Tréville shook his head.

“The man is completely unknown in the city, yet he appears for two days and suddenly has a Judge in his pocket and a murder in his study, you don’t think that odd?”

“You think the Baron killed the Comte?” Aramis posed sceptically.

“I think it would make a hell of a lot more sense than d’Artagnan,” Athos retorted, “The Comte came willingly to Longepierre’s apartments, several witnesses attested to the fact, though what was never discussed was _why_? Why was the Comte there? Why was d’Artagnan there? What drove d’Artagnan to shoot the Comte, if it was truly him that fired the pistol…”

“So a Baron and Comte have business that d’Artagnan got caught in…” Aramis pondered aloud, “still does explain why he’s not talking, the boy’s got a short fuse but…”

“What if d’Artagnan saw something he shouldn’t,” Porthos looked up around the room’s occupants.

“If d’Artagnan had uncovered something it would be his duty to report it,” Tréville murmured, “he is not the type to be swayed by profiting noblemen.”

“Which is what he would have told the Baron,” Porthos agreed with a heavy tone, prompting a dark thought to curl up inside Athos' mind. 

“What would you do if you wished for silence from a young dutiful musketeer?” Athos posed aloud, biting his lip in thought as his mind reeled over all the possibilities.

“A young man with known romantic entanglements with a beautiful married woman…” Aramis caught Athos’ eye as the both came to similar conclusions.

A flickered gaze towards Tréville made Athos realise that d’Artagnan’s affair with Constance had not been unknown their Captain.

“He wasn't exactly subtle…” Tréville raised an eyebrow in retort.

That was an understatement. When Constance and the Gascon had begun their ‘secret’ relationship, d’Artagnan had all but called it from the rooftops. The bright toothy grin on the young musketeer’s face had been amusing but far from covert as the two would exchange kisses and whisper sweet nothings to one another in the centre of crowded market street in broad daylight. At the time it had made Athos almost wish Aramis had followed through on his threat to teach the boy how to handle clandestine affairs with the fairer sex.

And even though the young lovers’ relationship had not lasted long, it did not take a genius to see that they still yearned for one another. All rational thought seemed to disappear in the Gascon’s mind when matters concerned the fair Madame Bonacieux.

“So the Baron and the Comte argue, he shoots the Comte, d’Artagnan discovers them and Longepierre threatens Constance for his silence…” Aramis concluded.

“It’s the only thing that making a lick of sense right now,” Porthos agreed.

“I shall seek an audience with his Majesty early tomorrow, if luck is on our side he should be in residence before the execution,” Tréville announced, standing up to announce his exit. “Justice shall be carried out,” he promised with a meaningful look to each of his men.

“I appreciate the wine,” he added with a small smile towards Athos, “get some rest,” he nodded, leaving the three musketeers to wait out the night.

 

†††

 

No one slept that night. The very thought of sleep or rest seem utterly impossible given the events that would greet them once the sun rose once more.

The hours dripped by slowly like a small leak in a thatched roof. No one had said anything for the past few hours, each suggested topic seemed useless in their efforts to save their youngest from his fate.

Though they had all been instructed to by their Captain to rest, none left Athos’ apartments. Each had taken a separate corner of the room; Athos sat upon his bed, head resting in his palms, Porthos sat upon the floor, leaning his back against the wall, starring at the room with a black expression and Aramis sat at the table, using the second chair as a footrest. No one had moved in hours, each silently mulling over the situation their youngest had landed himself in.

“You do realise that once we get d’Artagnan off these charges it’s Aramis’ turn…” Porthos broke the silence with an absent tone.

“What the are you talking about…?” Aramis grumbled with a sleep-ridden moan, peering over at Porthos with a brow raised lazily.

“You’re the only one that hasn’t been wrongfully sentenced to death,” Porthos shrugged, slightly delirious as the early hours of the night had begun to weigh upon him. “It’s only fair you goes next.”

“This is no time to joke, Porthos,” Athos sighed, standing up from the bed only to take the bottle from the table, before returning to the bed.

“Is it time for that?” Porthos said curtly, eying the bottle distastefully.

“It is the exact hour for this,” Athos murmured, pulling the cork out with his teeth, taking a deep drink from the bottle, his eyes never leaving the window, intently watching as the sky began to lighten ominously.

“There is still hope, Athos,” Aramis sighed, though from his tone Athos questioned whether Aramis believed it himself.

“Is there?” Athos returned, his voice betraying how defeated his soul felt.

“We won’t give up on him, Athos,” Porthos declared, “God knows he wouldn’t give up on us.”

“What hope is there when the law has been abused before our very eyes…?” Athos growled hopelessly, cursing the lack of numbing ecstasy he desired from the alcohol before him.

“Well there is another option,” Aramis noted casually, catching the other’s attention instantly.

“I’m listening,” Athos drawled slowly as he caught Aramis’ gaze.

“If the law betrays us, Athos” Aramis told him with a glint of mischief in his eyes, “we shall just have to betray the law.”

“Music to my ears,” Porthos chuckled as he pushed himself off the floor, taking a fresh bottle from a small, concealed wooden box.

Athos gave Porthos a curious look but this only made the man’s smile widen, “I know all your hiding spots.”

With a noncommittal shrug, Athos turned back to Aramis, “What’s your plan?”

 

†††

 

The jeers from the crowd were ruthless. Taunts and angry slurs that Athos doubted they fully understood. None of these people had truly known d’Artagnan, nor did they fully comprehend the facts of his accused crimes. They had not right to judge him, call him _murderer_ , to boo and hiss as the boy was led before them.

“It is going to take an ocean of wine to get this image from my mind,” Porthos growled, as he looked up at the scaffold where a rope was being placed around the Gascon’s neck.

“And then some,” Athos agreed bitterly, biting the corner of his lip nervously as he watched the blank expression upon the young musketeer’s face. D’Artagnan’s calm at that moment was utterly unnerving. The boy looked so young, so unaware of all that happened around him, unconsciously bending to the will of executioner. It was then that Athos recognised the look in the Gascon’s eyes, _defeat_.

He had given up. Surrendered to his sentence so entirely. It made Athos sick to the stomach. If Aramis’ plan succeeded, Athos swore to Heaven and Earth that he would strive to do all that he could to never again see the expression d’Artagnan wore at this very moment.

“Does Flea know we’re coming?” Aramis asked quietly, making sure his lips did not move too much as he looked around the joyful crowd casually.

“She’s ready and has men in position,” Porthos murmured under his breath to the musketeers at his side, “Says he can stay until a retrial can be agreed upon…”

“And if it can’t?” Aramis asked apprehensively, licking his bottom lip anxiously as his eyes travelled back upon the young Gascon on the scaffold.

“I hear Barbados is nice this time of year…” Porthos shrugged nonchalantly, in a conversational manner.

“You can get a boat?” Aramis wonder aloud, clearly feeling the need for light conversation to distract him from the proceedings before him.

“Aramis, _please_ ,” Porthos snorted as if the question had caused him some offence.

“I have been meaning to travel more,” Athos smirked a little; though his expression quickly turned sour again as the official stepped forth upon the scaffold, ready to address the jeering crowd.

“Charles d’Artagnan,” the official announced dutifully, though he did not even spare a glance to the man he was addressing. “You are charged with the murder of Comte Bertrand de la Marche, for which you have been found guilty. For these crimes you have been sentenced to hang from the neck until dead.”

“Do you need a boost?” Porthos muttered to Aramis with a ghost of a smile.

“I have a box,” Aramis retorted wirily, absently knocking a wooden crate at his heels.

“Can you make the shot?” Porthos asked, peering at the man beside him.

“Porthos, _please_ ,” Aramis scoffed as he readied his arquebus subtly, watching the crowd tentatively for any sign of suspicion upon the trio. But his worries seemed unwarranted as all eyes were glued upon the wooden scaffold and the musketeer upon it.

“Do you have any last words you wish to confess?” The official asked the condemned Gascon.

From where the three were standing it was too far to hear what d’Artagnan uttered, though Athos could still see the words the Gascon’s mouth was forming:

_All for one and one for all._

All thoughts froze in Athos’ mind as recent events slammed back through his mind like a lucid dream, chilling his blood. For they had been right in thinking the boy’s actions had been for love, but not the love they had thought. D’Artagnan was not in the hangman’s noose for Constance…

“It’s us,” Athos breathed in realisation, heart crashing painfully against his ribcage, eye wide.

“What?” Aramis’ attentions were now solely upon Athos.

“Someone is threatening _us_ ,” he growled, eyes locked upon the Gascon boy strung upon the scaffold, precariously wobbling on the wooden block.

“That _idiot_ ,” Aramis gapped with an expression of worry and frustration, though they did not have long to ponder over the recent revelation as the executioner viciously kicked the block from beneath d’Artagnan’s feet, dropping the young Gascon ruthlessly.

Athos’ heart rammed against his chest in sickening thuds as he saw the young musketeer struggling desperately, swinging frantically upon the scaffold.

“D’Artagnan!” Athos roared across the courtyard, forgetting all thoughts of their plan as he rushed through the cheering crowd.

“ _Shoot it_ ,” Porthos urged Aramis as the musketeer quickly stood upon the wooden crate, lining up the swinging rope in his sights.

Just as Aramis placing his finger upon the trigger, a new voice shattered his concentration completely.

“Stop! Cut him down!” A woman’s voice rang out above the jeering crowds, “this man is innocent! I have proof!”

“What?” Porthos turned to the voice of the newcomer, stunned as he met Aramis’ gaze.

“Cut him down!” Athos bellowed, pushing people aside with a crazed fury, though it was like swimming in molasses as he shoved his way in attempts to reach the scaffold.

“Move aside,” Porthos growled fiercely as he and Aramis attempted to clear a path for the mysterious woman.

“ _Piss off_ ,” a man sneered at Porthos, though the larger musketeer did not take his comment kindly as he forcefully pushed the man to the ground in order to get past.

The dense crowd seemed an unmoving wall of people, a rock against their endeavours, though thankfully the woman’s cries had alerted the executioner and he had cut down the Gascon with quick precision, dropping d’Artagnan upon the hard wooden scaffold.

“Who is she?” Aramis looked to Athos for answers with wide eyes as the three stood in shock, thankful their youngest had been cut down from the noose around his neck, but unsure of whether the boy’s saviour came with good tidings or ill.

“As long as she buys d’Artagnan time, I don’t care,” Athos allowed himself a moment’s breath, looking over that the woman kneeling beside a shaken d’Artagnan. She appeared to be whispering something to the boy, which caused d’Artagnan some initial panic – this did not sit well with Athos. However he would let it rest for now, d’Artagnan’s neck no longer sported a deathly rope and he seemed to be breathing well under the circumstances.

Though before Athos’ worries could be completely dissuaded, several of the Cardinal’s red-caped guards surrounded the young musketeer, pulling him from the scaffold.

“Where are they taking him?” Athos demanded, tried to push his way through the crowd once more in order to follow d’Artagnan, renewing his efforts to force his way towards the young musketeer.

“Athos, stand down,” the familiar voice of their Captain appeared behind them, halting their attack instantly. Turning rapidly they saw Tréville standing tall before them, a content smile upon his face. The man seemed calm, which in turn soothed the mental monologue of worries tormenting Athos’ mind. “D’Artagnan is to be retrial before the King,” Tréville told them evenly, his tone pacifying their anger and frustrations.

“Cutting it a little short,” Porthos grumbled quietly, hands clenched with white tipped knuckles, though his rage had all but gone.

“What changed their minds?” Athos wondered aloud. The last few days had become a string of unexpected twists and turns, each more troubling than the last. He prayed this revelation was to be the last of the heart-wrenching disclosures that fate seemed to be torturing them with.

“New evidence has arisen,” Tréville informed them, revealing a letter with a broken wax seal. “The Baron killed himself last night, ate his own pistol.”

Athos raised a sceptical brow at the Captain’s news. The man had seemed rather chipper the previous evening, far too much to commit suicide. From the look Tréville gave them, he too suspected the Baron’s death was a little too convenient.

“We have the very best of alibies,” Athos assured the Captain slowly with great caution.

“You don’t need them,” the Captain sighed, nodding to the letter in his hand, “the Baron was kind enough to confess before he ended it.”

“Considerate of him,” Athos uttered as he gazed down cautiously at the paper in Tréville’s hand, a small part of him hesitant to believe that this innocuous piece of parchment held the key to d’Artagnan’s freedom.

“Come, the trial is to begin immediately at the palace,” Tréville told them, nodding over to where d’Artagnan stood surrounded by an escort of several of the Cardinal’s guards. D’Artagnan looked pale and shaky, which was understandable, though they all knew the guards would not try anything with Tréville and the musketeers watching closely.

It was then that the Captain noticed Aramis’ readied arquebus and the box near the musketeer’s feet. With great suspicion, Tréville surveyed his musketeers before him, and then concluded his examination with a heavy eye roll.

“I don’t even want to know…” Tréville groaned wearily as he began to follow d’Artagnan’s precession towards the palace.

 

†††

 

Once in the King’s presence the trial commenced. And though the Judge from d’Artagnan’s trail seemed vehemently against a retrial, his Majesty ignored all protests, wishing to hear the facts from himself.

D’Artagnan muddled through some tale of heartbreak and illicit affairs with a lady of the court – utter rubbish. Anyone that knew d’Artagnan well knew of how he still carried a strong burning flame for the fair Madame Bonacieux and none so far had swayed his attentions in the slightest.

Though apparently the King ate up the story with much interest. It was no secret that the young Louis often enjoyed the adventurous and romantic escapades of his musketeers. Athos often considered that his Majesty simply relished in the vicarious experience of these matters, as the excitement was something completely out of his reach.

The Cardinal, however seemed suspicious, which was nerve inducing. After everything that had occurred with his wife, Athos had noticed how the Cardinal’s vengeful attentions seemed to be aimed at the youngest; in hopes that d’Artagnan’s downfall would cause a domino effect. _All for one_ indeed...

Athos barely payed attention to the proceedings after d’Artagnan made his ‘confession’. All that was in the musketeer’s sights was the dishevelled young Gascon before him. D’Artagnan’s story to the King only brought up more questions than had answered. What was so dire that it warranted lying to all around him? Even with the Baron dead, d’Artagnan seemed unmovable on keeping his silence. It worried Athos all the more. Never before had the boy been so secretive towards his brothers. True the events with Anne had eventuated in uncovered the boy’s deception but that had been due to d’Artagnan’s oblivious position, not by any nefarious means. Once the true had been revealed d’Artagnan had relinquished the information he kept, explaining how he would have told them earlier, had he known.

And it was true that the boy was welcome to his secrets. Athos would not pressure any of his brothers to revealing something they did not wish. But this was different – when the secrets began to eat away at their entire dynamic, threatening lives and leaving them in the dark, that was where Athos drew a line. Perhaps one day soon the boy would trust them enough to tell them, for that was what cut the deepest. Athos had once prided himself of the transparency between the four of them, however as time went on it seemed secrets had begun to poison the bond they shared.

But for now he simply relished in d’Artagnan’s freedom. A cooling wave past over him as the King dismissed d’Artagnan’s charges, clearing the young musketeer’s name of all he was accused.

“Take him home, make him rest,” Athos heard Tréville mutter to the trio, “take the next few days and make sure there are no lasting trauma’s from this nightmare.”

Athos nodded slowly in acceptance. He did not need to be ordered to do this, but the reprieve from duties was most welcome after the gruelling torture of the past few days spent in worry.

“Where did he go?” Porthos frowned after a moment, causing Athos’ heart to skip a beat for the umpteenth time that day.

“What? He was just there!” Aramis’ eyes widened as he desperately searched the emptying room.

“Where the hell is he?” Athos swore as his eyes flittered between the faces around them. “ _Find him_.”

Splitting off into three separate directions, each musketeer strove towards the exits, rushing through the waves of people, anxiously searching.

After a few minutes of chaotic blind panic, Athos heard Porthos utter four of the most calming words that had graced his ears in the past few days.

“Athos, I found him!”

Rounding the corner, Athos finally gave himself the chance to breathe as he saw d’Artagnan – _safe, alive_ – at the end of the corridor.

“Thank God,” he murmured a silent prayer as he stalked to towards the boy, his guard still held high as his gaze turned upon the elderly woman standing next to d’Artagnan. This woman was the very same who had tore the Gascon from the scaffold, saving him at the last moment. She was wealthy, her clothes and poise expressed her elite status, elderly, married.

“Madame,” Athos eyed the woman with ample suspicion as they three rounded on the young musketeer. “Who are you and how do you know d’Artagnan?”

“Charming as ever,” Aramis quieted chided at his side, though Athos ignored this.

“I’m the Baroness de Longepierre,” the elderly woman told him with a lofty tone and Athos mentally kicked himself for not realising more quickly. The woman had introduced herself to the King not but a few moments before, though Athos’ attentions had been so focused upon d’Artagnan he had barely spared a thought for the woman claiming the boy’s innocence.

 _The Baron’s wife_. Athos’ expression turned cold as he studied her in a cautious light. Though seemingly singlehandedly saving their youngest from the hangman’s noose, the woman’s connection to the manipulating Baron did her no favours in Athos’ eyes.

However as he studied her, there was something amiss. The fading bruises upon her wrist and the bandages seemed to tell a tale of abuse, though Athos could not be certain of this. The woman was clearly proud and hardy, regardless of her advancement in years, she would not be one to admit such abuse if asked outright.

“I broke her teapot,” d’Artagnan confessed meekly, causing Athos to blink owlishly at the younger man.

“Please tell me that’s not a euphemism…” Porthos snorted, causing Athos to rolled his eyes. Though Athos soon realized Porthos’ humour had been an attempt to dispel the tension in the room.

“I am old enough to be the boy’s grandmother,” The Baroness frowned deeply with an unimpressed expression. As the elderly woman took Porthos in her sights, Athos suddenly realized how much he liked this woman, reminding him of the Mother Superior.

“Perhaps not the time, my friend,” Aramis noted quietly, as he patted Porthos upon the shoulder.

“I shall let you get back to your family,” the Baroness turned back to the young Gascon, patting him maternally on the arm, though d’Artagnan still looked at little dazed, “come by anytime my dear and once your dear brothers learn some manners, they are welcome also.”

It was always amazing to Athos how quickly people took a liking to the young Gascon. Though he himself had been one of them, Athos always forgot how charming the young musketeer’s politeness and enthusiasm were to those who admired such traits. And though these effects seemed to work best on old women and children – which seemed to irritate d’Artagnan as his attentions lay upon the young beauties of Paris – Athos could see it was moments like this that he was grateful for the young man’s unconscious magnetism.

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan whispered to the Baroness as the elderly woman made her exit.

Without a moment’s rest, Athos immediately closed the gap between himself and d’Artagnan, peering over the young musketeer in search of injury and mistreatment.

“Are you alright?” Athos breathed out, tension rolling off him as he finally had tactile proof that the boy was breathing and alive.

“A few bruises, nothing more,” d’Artagnan mumbled, though it was a lie clear as day. The boy looked beyond exhausted, the pallor of his skin and the redness in his eyes revealed how thoroughly shattered the events of the past few days had left the young musketeer.

Athos’ fingers trailed the length of the rope burn upon the young Gascon’s neck, relieved that a simply burn was all that had occurred. It would fade soon, leaving no achingly clear reminder of their failings.

Four bloodied crescents had been dug into d’Artagnan’s neck. Someone had held the boy’s throat, applied enough pressure upon it to break the skin. Light bruises around the scratches told of a vehemently merciless touch, causing a deep anger to burn in Athos’ heart.

“What the hell are these?” Athos snarled, unable to hold back the anger boiling beneath his skin.

“I’m fine, really,” d’Artagnan brushed off Athos’ worry casually, but that did nothing to quell Athos’ growl in reply.

“You just narrowly escaped your own execution, of course you’re not alright.”

“Have you slept?” Aramis frowned, stepping forward as he caught Athos’ gaze, “when was the last time – “

“D’Artagnan?” The Queen’s soft tone’s alerted Athos instantly, standing aside so as to face her Majesty and her ladies in waiting.

“Your Majesty,” they nodded reverently in unison, upon the Queen’s arrival.

With a gentle word Anne of Austria bid her ladies leave her and the musketeers, to which they accepted dutifully with an array of delicate curtsies before making their exit.

“Oh come here,” she sighed, all sense of regal elegance forgotten as she pulled the young Gascon into her arm. “Forgive me for the pain I have caused you.”

Stunned into absolute silence, all three musketeers stood agape, eyes wide as their Queen fretted over their youngest with all the love and affection of an elder sister.

“You…?” Athos felt himself at an utter loss for words, his eyes flittering between the Queen and d’Artagnan.

All previous theories had been utterly floored by her Majesty’s revelation. Never had they even once considered that the Queen had been involved in this chaotic chain of nightmarish events.

“Longepierre was threatening me, I sent d’Artagnan to deliver a missive and somehow allowed him to be pulled into the Baron’s cruel web,” Anne explained with a tense expression. “I had no idea the extents of the matter until Tréville burst into the throne room this morning, as his Majesty returned from his hunting trip, demanding a retrial,” she told them softly. “I would have waited to confront Longepierre, but it was an urgent and timely matter.”

“Better me than you, your Majesty,” d’Artagnan murmured softly, catching her Majesty’s gaze for a brief moment.

“I’ll have none of that,” Anne chided softly, her tone gently and kind. “I cannot begin to fathom what you said to sway his intentions.”

“Indeed,” Athos levelled his gaze upon the Gascon. His mind was now drowning in unanswered questions. This entire escapade had been maddening from beginning to end, each time they thought they had deciphered the events, another issue would come to light, toppling all previous conclusions.

“I never really understood it, it all happened so quickly. But I think he did it purely because he wanted to,” d’Artagnan gave a vague shrug as he muttered quietly.

Porthos cracked his knuckles audibly as Athos’ jaw set tight. Aramis seemed to hold a cold level of calm but Athos could see the anger masked behind his expression.

“Your Majesty,” d’Artagnan suddenly paled before them, his hands beginning to trembling slightly, though Athos wondered if the Gascon was aware of how much his body was betraying him, “the Baron, he still – “

“He is dead d’Artagnan, it is over,” the Queen told him gently, soothing the young musketeer with kind words.

“He had letters, letters of yours sent to… an acquaintance,” d’Artagnan uttered softly, leaving a pause as he conveyed something silently with the Queen.

Athos flickered his gaze over to Aramis and Porthos in hopes they could decipher what the boy was getting at but all he got in return was a small noncommittal shrug from both.

"I have never sent any letters of that kind, d'Artagnan," the Queen uttered smoothly, though her tone revealed a warning edge.

“But I saw –“ d’Artagnan began but then trailed off in an undecipherable murmur.

“What was that?” Athos inquired tersely.

“Nothing, it doesn’t matter now…” d’Artagnan said airily, his voice seemed to be fading away as though he was unaware of where he was.

“I am glad you are safe,” the Queen smiled warmly, as she gave the boy a small nod in thanks, “I am in your debt, d’Artagnan.”

“I was simply doing what any musketeer would have done,” d’Artagnan informed her modestly, though his voice seemed a touch detached from the situation.

“You served your Queen far beyond your duty and shall be rewarded for you valiant efforts,” Anne smiled brightly, though paused for a moment, as d’Artagnan did not reply.

“D’Artagnan?” the Queen frowned as she stepped closer to the young musketeer.

The young musketeer’s eyes seemed to glaze over into a state of shock and panic.

“D’Artagnan?” Athos watched the Gascon intently as he reached out to him.

“Athos, I think he’s going into shock,” Aramis murmured with heavy concern as he took the boy’s head in his hands, desperately attempting to bring d’Artagnan back to reality.

Blinking owlishly the boy looked towards the Queen with a panic stricken expression, his colour fading rapidly as his hands began to tremble and shake.

“Are you alright?” Anne of Austria asked with a pinched expression, her concern radiating clearly for all to see.

All at once d’Artagnan seemed to come back to reality, though all he seemed to utter was “ _excuse me_ ” before darting of down to corridor at a racing pace.

“D’Artagnan!” Porthos called after the boy, but all attempts to stop him proved futile.

“Please excuse us,” Athos nodded dutifully, with a hurried bow.

“Don’t be silly, please see that he is well,” the Queen waved off as the trio powered after the Gascon, hands grabbing swords and belts to stop them flying about with their rushed pace.

 

†††

 

 _Idiot_ , Athos thought brashly as his eyes searched the gardens frantically for d’Artagnan.

 _Where are you_? Athos’ mind screamed for a release from the emotional agony, but kept his pace true as he heard a growling cry of anguished frustration from an avenue of trees to his right.

Without another though, Athos ran towards d’Artagnan’s screams of fury, unsure whether it was simply a release of stress or the cause of something more severe.

“D’Artagnan!” Athos cried out as he ran towards the boy, arms desperately collecting the fiery Gascon in hopes to calm his anger.

“He lied, he _fucking_ lied,” d’Artagnan growled into Athos’ chest, vibrating physically with the anger that coursed through his entire body, tears rolling uncontrollably down his cheeks as he clenched his teeth.

“You’re okay,” Athos uttered soothingly, fingers combing through the boy’s hair as “you’re okay.”

Looking up, Athos could see Aramis and Porthos run up to the two, they both seemed as relieved as Athos felt.

“Calm your breaths,” Aramis said gently; placing a hand upon the boy’s back, “You’ll pass out if you keep breathing this way.”

Aramis’ orders seemed to pacify the hyperventilating Gascon, as he pushed himself out of Athos’ arms, trying desperately to slow his breathing.

“You okay now?” Aramis asked softly.

D’Artagnan starred at the three men before him for a moment, heavy breaths

“ _Argh_!” d’Artagnan growled in frustration as he went to punch is white-knuckled fist into a nearby tree, however Porthos quickly caught the fist in his larger hand, pulling the young angry musketeer away from his leafy target.

“Not a good idea,” Porthos told him gently, moving so that he should stood between d’Artagnan and the tree, “you’ll only break your hand that way.”

“I want to kill him,” d’Artagnan gasped, dropping his hands against his knees as he bent over, trembling. “I want to _kill him_.”

Athos’ heart wrenched at d’Artagnan’s anger and frustration. The young Gascon had always shown a fiery streak, his heart all consumed with the honour of justice and the honesty of his fellow man. D’Artagnan’s world was black and white and now he was beginning to see the world was grey. The courts did not always deliver fair justice; the villain did not always get his comeuppance. And though Athos had known this day would come it had eventuated in such a cruel fashion he wished it gone from the young musketeer’s memory.

“I could’ve, I had the opportunity, but I didn’t,” d’Artagnan revealed.

“Then that makes you a better man than he,” Aramis told the young musketeer.

D’Artagnan laughed at this, but it was hollow and jaded, unlike his usual laughter, it chilled Athos’ blood, “ _no, it really doesn’t_.”

Something about this comment seemed to cause the Gascon more pain, his skin paling further as he began to look a little green. However they quickly found out the cause of d’Artagnan’s sickly pallor as the young musketeer doubled over into the bushes, expelling what little he had in the stomach.

Aramis rushed forward to aide the lad, gently rubbing his back in hopes to quell the bout of nausea.

And though d’Artagnan seemed to wish to ignore all else around him, Athos knew that there was still more to this situation. He could not just accept this as a full explaination, there was still far to many variables left unanswered.

“What did the Baron say that would force you to the gallows?” Athos asked after a moment, as d’Artagnan’s gagged quieted. “You lied to the King and court just now, why?”

“It doesn’t matter, it wasn’t true…“ d’Artagnan moaned meekly, his complexion almost tinted green as he held his stomach weakly.

“Leave him be,” Aramis sighed, rubbing d’Artagnan’s back in hopes to quell the younger’s nausea. “You of all people should allow him his privacy, after all the secrets you’ve had.”

“I also know the danger in keeping them,” Athos shot back, leveling Aramis with a sharp knowing gaze.

“Look, I understand your concern,” Aramis stood up as he addressed Athos, Porthos kneeling down to relieve Aramis’ care of d’Artagnan, “but this is no time for an interrogation.”

“When’s the last time you ate lad?” Porthos sighed wearily as he helped the young musketeer off the ground.

D’Artagnan leaned heavily against the larger man, eyes glazing over as he pondered in thought. “What day is it?”

“See?” Aramis turned to Athos with a sharp look of concern, “let him be, he needs sleep and food.”

Seeing d’Artagnan in such a state proved Aramis’ point exactly, the young musketeer was in no position to be pushed. He needed to eat, to sleep in a warm bed, he needed his cuts and abrasions seen to and the wound on his head cleaned out.

Athos nodded without another word, moving off through the tall trees back toward the palace. They all needed rest. The past twenty-four hours had felt like months of excoriating emotion turmoil.

“Longepierre claimed that the Queen…” d’Artagnan’s voice halted Athos in his stride, causing him to turn back at the stoic Gascon, “and Aramis –“

For all the pain and worry that had transpired over the past two days, none could compare to the uttering chilling ice water that doused him with this revelation.

“ _Aramis_?” Athos almost choked on the musketeer’s name, so fearful of the next words to leave the young Gascon’s lips, though his aching heart and mind were already filling in every unanswered question.

What secret did they keep which would cause a young musketeer to give his life for…

The truth was so plain it was blinding, sickening.

“I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan turned to Aramis, his voice sounding desperate, as if he were pleading for forgiveness, “I should’ve known, I should have trusted that you would never…” d’Artagnan trailed off.

Though Athos was consumed in the overwhelming sound of his blood rushing in his ears. It was becoming harder and harder to keep his expression neutral.

“Never what?” Porthos asked softly, slightly confused.

“The Baron said he had evidence to prove that the Queen’s child belonged to Aramis…” he revealed quietly, brows knitted, beseeching absolution for his doubt.

“And that is what kept your silence?” Aramis paled visibly, his voice had gone eerily hollow. The musketeer looked pale as his eyes sought Athos’, though Athos refused to look at the other man, for he was not sure what he would do.

“This is what you almost gave your life for?” Athos fought with every inch of his being to keep himself from bursting out in rage.

“He said you all knew, that you would all surely hang for the allowing it to happen…” d’Artagnan revealed, his guilt like a dagger through Athos’ heart. “I should’ve known he was lying, but he seemed to know everything, he knew about Athos’ marriage to Milady, he knew about Bonaire, _Aramis_ , he even knew about Savoy…”

Longepierre had known everything about them, collecting information like nails for their coffins, waiting the perfect moment to strike.

“Lies are easy to swallow when they are swaddled in truth…” Porthos muttered darkly.

“ _God_ …” Aramis’ voice wavered noticeably and Athos saw him stumble. His quick reflexes caught Aramis’ shoulder quickly though he could not help the vice like grip upon the other’s shoulder. The anger within him was becoming uncontrollable. Guilt crippling him as the secret he and Aramis had kept from the others was now coming back to haunt them in the most horrid of ways.

He and Aramis had never discussed that night any further than when they brushed it off at the convent. But a month of building tension between the two had infected the wound, festering the issue silently.

“I’m so sorry,” d’Artagnan seemed to be repeating himself but Athos was solely concentrating on keeping Aramis upright without releasing his anger in a physical manifestation that he knew he could later regret.

“ _Please_ , do not apologise,” Aramis struggled to force the words from his mouth. Athos new he would feel sorry for the guilt Aramis was dealing with once this was dealt with, but at the moment he could not see past his own fury to accommodate the other man.

“ _Athos_ ,” Aramis whispered through heaved breaths, his voice hitching slightly.

“Don’t,” Athos gritted out, tightening his grip, watching the other’s carefully to make sure they did not see.

Athos did not see a reason for revealing their subterfuge to Porthos and d’Artagnan. They were safer not knowing. This secret may prove be the ruin of them all.

“Why did you not seek one of us out, to find the truth?” Porthos wondered in frustration, “A single word would have set this slander right.”

“There was no time,” d’Artagnan, “before I knew it the Comte lay dead at my feet and I was in irons bound for the Châtelet. Once there I had no way of reaching you before the trial…”

“Where the Baron stood watch…” Athos snarled as he placed all the pieces together in his mind. The Baron seemed to be a master at manipulation, preempting all, bar his eventual demise.

“I couldn’t risk it,” d’Artagnan said meekly.

“Lad, know this,” Porthos eyed the younger man, placing both hands upon d’Artagnan’s shoulders, “we would not hide something of this caliber from you. You are one of us and we would never risk your life for the concealment of a secret.”

“I know,” d’Artagnan smiled meekly as the larger man pulled him in for a playful hug. “I’m sorry.”

As Porthos and d’Artagnan headed towards the palace exchanging light banter, Athos felt a hand on his shoulder, halting his pace.

“Athos,” Aramis tried, but Athos was hearing none of it.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Athos warned coldly in a harsh whisper, his eyes darted at Porthos and d’Artagnan before them. “Just leave it.”

“I know you’re angry, I am too, but –“ It was clear Aramis’ guilt was weighing on him heavily but now was not the time to discuss such matters, not here in the open. If recent events had told them anything, it was that they had been careless and d’Artagnan had almost paid for that carelessness.

“I said _leave it_.”

“Athos, we need to talk –“

Athos turned to face the other man with the speed of a whip, fists bundling Aramis’ shirt collar as he pushed him back roughly against a nearby tree, staring the other man into silence.

“D’Artagnan was almost executed because you couldn’t keep it in your pants for one _fucking_ night,” Athos snarled through clenched teeth, staring down the other man for a moment before releasing him with a harsh push. “Do not push me, Aramis, I am in no mood for it.”

Looking back to where Porthos and d’Artagnan were walking, Athos eyes met the larger musketeer’s, earning a sharp glare of anger and curiosity as Porthos’ gaze flickered from Athos to Aramis.

There was going to be a lot of explaining to do.

 

†††

 

They had made it back to the garrison without further incident, though the silence between them was deafening. Porthos had walked a far way ahead with d’Artagnan and had already brought the doctor into the Gascon’s quarters by the time Aramis and Athos had arrived.

“The doctor’s in there with him,” Porthos told them gruffly, placing himself in front of the door imposingly, completely blocking from entering the room.

“Porthos, it was just a couple of bumps and bruises, I can handle it.” Aramis sighed, moving forward to push Porthos aside but the larger man made no indication of budging from the doorway.

“Porthos,” Aramis furrowed his brow as he looked up at him, looking a little hurt by the larger musketeer’s actions.

“You’re not going in there ‘til I know what the hell is wrong with the two of you.” Porthos growled, “you’ve been keeping secrets for weeks, it ends now.”

“Porthos…” Aramis groaned, running his fingers shakily through his unkempt hair.

“He was right, wasn’t he?” Porthos shook his head, clenching his teeth as Athos could see the frustration broiling beneath.

“I don’t know what you’re – “ Aramis tried to brush off nonchalantly, but Porthos saw through it instantly.

“You and the bloody Queen!” he hissed angrily.

“Keep your voice down!” Athos snapped, peering down the corridor to make sure there was no one about. “Do you want the entire garrison to hear of this?”

“You never even flirted with Charlotte Mellendorf, did you?”

“Who?” Aramis frowned, clearly thrown by the name, though Athos knew this the worst possible thing he could have said, even without looking at the deep seeded anger growing in Porthos’ eyes.

“We are not having this conversation here,” Athos whispered harshly, “now let us in there.”

“You cold selfish bastards,” Porthos snarled with an anger he’d never shown towards his brothers. “You would let that boy die to save your own skins?”

“We didn’t know that was why he did it!” Aramis hissed back, the guilt glinting in his eyes.

“We had no idea of knowing, Porthos,” Athos told him quietly, “Naivety led us to believe that no one knew of this.”

“You two seriously fucked up,” Porthos glared furiously at the two of them. “D’Artagnan is one of us, he’s our brother and you two just threw him to the wolves so that you could have a little romp in the sheets.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Aramis tried to defend himself, but it was clear he had not the heart to continue.

“It never is,” Porthos scoffed coldly, pushing open the door to d’Artagnan’s quarters gruffly as he stalked into the room, revealing the Gascon standing shirtless before the doctor as his lightly bruised ribs were prodded gently.

Athos followed in turn, a wave of fresh guilt doused him in an icy blast as his eyes caught sight of a thick scar upon d’Artagnan’s ribs. Once again their youngest had suffered the consequences of their past sins.

“How is he?” Athos asked with a touch of apprehension, though d’Artagnan had not seem too badly hurt, the Gascon was relentless when it came to hiding his injuries from the others.

“M’good,” d’Artagnan murmured, pulling a fresh shirt over his head as he sat upon the bed. Though Athos still turned to the doctor for his diagnosis.

“He’s fine,” the doctor concluded with a nod, “scraps, bruises, nothing more. He needs rest and a decent meal, but other than that he is fine.”

“Told you,” d’Artagnan muttered sleepily, his eyes drooping heavily.

“Thank you,” Athos nodded to the doctor, who left without another word, concluding his work finished.

“Got something to say Aramis?” Porthos asked snidely as he leaned back against the wall.

“Not now, Porthos,” Athos growled tersely. D’Artagnan was in no state for further torment, he was already starting to dip his head into sleep.

“Then when?” Porthos muttered darkly, glaring fiercely at the two gentlemen. 

 

†††

 

The next few days were akin to fresh and tortuous level of hell. Athos refused to speak to Aramis, his anger still too raw to warrant talking to the man without wishing to punch him in the face. Porthos refused to speak to both Athos and Aramis, furious that they would keep something like this from him and d’Artagnan. Coincidently Porthos seemed to be anger on d’Artagnan’s behalf as well, as the boy was still unaware of how true his sacrifice had been. Porthos stood watch over the young Gascon, delivering cold, bitter glances whenever Athos entered the boy’s quarters to check how he was doing.

And Aramis? Aramis seemed to be taking the news the hardest. With both Athos and Porthos not speaking to him, and d’Artagnan’s misguided guilt whenever he want in the boy’s company, Aramis had chosen solitude over any form of companionship, spending their days off duty in the darkest corner of the local taverns.

“Look, I know I screwed up, but can we just forget it?” d’Artagnan sighed wearily on the morning of the third day of silent feuding between the trio. They had been sitting at their usual table in the garrison with the same level of sullenness they had all grown accustomed to since the recent events.

“If you apologise one more time I will punch you in the face,” Porthos muttered sourly into his glass.

“Then why can’t we just move on?” d’Artagnan told them, “This is getting ridiculous, I thought you three were meant to be inseparable…”

The tension between them had become utterly unbearable. Though the three often had small disagreements, it had been a long while since anything had divided them so greatly.

D’Artagnan was right. And though the Gascon was not entirely aware of why he was right, Athos took his words to heart. They were brothers and should stick together regardless of the issues between them. How many times over the years had Aramis turned a blind eye to his own misdeeds? Athos could not count the times Porthos had stayed behind at a tavern simply to make sure he was alright and got home safe. Both Porthos and Aramis had not so much as blinked an eye when he had revealed the truth about his murderess wife. They had stuck by him with great loyalty, never once condemning Athos for his past crimes.

It was wrong of him to punished Aramis for something beyond his control.

“We’re going to my apartments,” Athos announced, this had gone too far. At this rate the three of them would stand stubbornly until Hell froze over. It needed to end. “Porthos show d’Artagnan the way.”

“Where are you going?” d’Artagnan asked, his line of sight trailing after Athos and the elder musketeer strode toward the garrison’s archway.

“To get Aramis.”

 

†††

 

Aramis was easy to find, secluded in a heavily shadowed booth in the corner of an ill-lit tavern near the garrison. Athos knew the other man would be close by. Aramis looked as if he had spent the last few days at the bottle of a very large, very potent bottle. His hair hung limp, half pressed on one side, mattered and dishevelled on the other. Bloodshot eyes starred down at the table, focusing on nothing at all. These last few days had been hard for all, but Aramis had suffered the worst.

“Spirits are better for hangovers,” Athos uttered softly to announce his presence to the man in the booth.

“Unfortunately this is all I can afford,” Aramis slurred slightly, though Athos could tell it was mostly sorrow that numbed the musketeer’s tongue not alcohol. “I thought we weren’t speaking.” Aramis gaze up at Athos curiously, to which the latter shrugged slightly.

“It’s not often you seek my coping methods, I found myself intrigued.” Athos told him with a slow drawl, keeping his tone light, despite the heavy subtext beneath.

“Well, women were definitely out, as they seemed to be the root of all my problems,” Aramis supplied bitterly, his gaze still not meeting the man before him.

Athos sighed quietly as he took a seat opposite Aramis. “I’m sorry I handled that the way I did, you have suffered enough torment for your… lapse in judgement,” Athos put delicately, “I did not need to punish you further.”

“My actions were my own and those actions came with the greatest of consequences, you had a right to be angry,” Aramis shrugged numbly, lazily raising his eyes to Athos.

“It takes two people, Aramis, you are not solely to blame.”

“Surely you do not blame her, Athos,” Aramis chided airily with a scoff, giving the other a look of disbelief.

“Were she a man and you a woman I would call it an abuse of power,” Athos revealed tightly. For truly, what right did a soldier have to refuse the Queen’s request? As a man Aramis had a clear advantage in physical strength but power of a royal was far beyond his station.

“I wished it as much as her, it was a moment of weakness, yes, but I do not love her any less for it,” Aramis inform him, pausing for a brief moment before adding, “for I do love her, Athos.”

“Then you are a fool,” Athos uttered softly, though there was no malice in his tone. 

“Is that not what love makes us?” Aramis murmured to the other man with a hollow smile.

Athos immediately thought of Anne. His love for her had indeed turned him into the greatest of fools. It had made him blind to her treachery and oblivious to the facts until it was too late to stop her. And though he knew the Queen was not the evil manipulating murderess that Milady was, he knew how love’s hold could turn a gentleman into a brainless fool.

“I want to tell d’Artagnan,” Aramis told Athos after a moment, “he needs to know his actions were not in vain.”

“Agreed,” Athos nodded, “we cannot continue like this.”

“Do you think he will forgive me?” Aramis sighed wearily, biting the corner of his bottom lip to quell his nerves.

“Well if he’s truly angry he may have Constance slap you,” Athos shrugged casually with a dark smirk, hoping to ease the tension between them.

“That woman has the strength of a man twice her size in her hand alone,” Aramis noted with an impressed expression. 

“You aren’t wrong...” Athos nodded, unconsciously rubbing the side of his face where Constance had berated him a few days prior. Though the ache had gone, he could still almost feel the tingling pain that resulted from the force of the woman’s blow.

 

†††

 

It took less than a few minutes to make the trek from the tavern to Athos’ apartments. Within close range to the garrison, Athos had chosen the residence for the sheer fact that he could make the distance completely drunk or severely hung-over, which he had proven many a time.

As they entered the room, they discovered that both d’Artagnan and Porthos had obviously been there a while. Porthos had opening a bottle and had placed a few glasses upon the table, clearly enjoying the free drink courtesy of the house. And while usually, Athos might berate the man verbally or with a sharp glare, he knew this situation would be far better with a bottle handy.

“What the hell happened to you?” d’Artagnan frowned as he saw the state Aramis was in.

“Aramis has something he wishes to say,” Athos drawled slowly as he sent Aramis a sharp look.

“Good,” Porthos noted, handing a cup of wine to Aramis. The two exchanged a silent conversation, which seemed to be one of apology and forgiveness. And though this exchange was lost on d’Artagnan, Athos notice it easily. Aramis took a small sip of the wine as he sat down in a chair across from d’Artagnan, levelling the Gascon in his gaze with a sombre expression.

“Know this,” he began with a heavy tone, “we only kept this from you to protect you, we never thought anything like this would happen.”

D’Artagnan frowned at little in confusion as he looked between the trio before him.

“Don’t look at me,” Porthos sniffed defensively, “they were the one’s that done it, I only just found out…”

“Had we known,” Aramis stressed before pausing, unable to find the right words. “The Baron was correct in his suspicions, d’Artagnan,” he finally revealed firmly.

“As in...?” d’Artagnan turned to each of them with a stunned expression.

Though no one spoke, each gave the Gascon a regretful nod in answer to his question.

“Oh thank God…” d’Artagnan breathed out in relief, to which Athos seriously contemplated the boy’s understanding of the situation. Though after the Gascon’s initial response, Athos could see there was an underlying anger growing.

“Interesting response,” Aramis blinked, cocking his to one side, “not what I would have –“

“I can’t _believe_ you slept with the Queen!” d’Artagnan hissed angrily at Aramis, his mood shifting instantly as the reality of the revelation seemed to dawn upon him.

“Huh,” Athos blinked slowly at the Gascon’s outburst, having an odd sense of déjà vu.

“I’m going to limit the time you spend with Athos, that was just eerie…” Aramis frowned at the younger man, before looking back at Athos who gave a small shrug.

“This is serious,” d’Artagnan glared at Aramis, “you… oh God…so her child, it’s…”

“We do not know for certain,” Athos told him sternly. There was no good in making such accusations without warranted proof. The fact that the Queen was know pregnant after

“But there is a great high possibility,” Aramis winced a little at this. 

“Oh my God…” d’Artagnan breathed out shakily, as he lowering his hand in his head.

“No one can know, d’Artagnan, the safety of the Queen and the monarchy of France hangs in the balance.” Athos instructed sternly, making sure the young musketeer understood. 

“No pressure then…” d’Artagnan uttered looking up at the three meekly.

“I’m sorry we did not tell you,” Aramis told him with a richly regretful tone, “we thought you two would be safer without the burden of this hanging over head.”

“Well done there..." d'Artagnan shot back with a reproachful tone, though there was little anger in his words. 

"And I feel that guilt most severely," Aramis revealed, "I would never have forgiven myself had…" Aramis was at a loss for words, his gaze fell to the floor. 

“This nearly got me hanged...” d’Artagnan warned Aramis slowly as his stony expression began to curl with a hint of amusement. “I’m going to take this very personally.”

“I knew you would,” Aramis smiled meekly at the Gascon and though Athos was unsure what had transpired between them, he knew the two had settled their grievances.

“What we still don’t understand is how the Baron found out,” Athos told them.

“He told me had letters between you two, but the Queen said that she never sent any,” d’Artagnan offered with a shrug.

“She’s right,” Aramis nodded thoughtfully, “we would never be that careless.”

“Was there nothing else?” Athos pressed, knowing that this mess would not be over until all potential leaks were seen to.

“Ladies in waiting…” d’Artagnan frowned, looking up at the others in realisation, “he said something about them knowing all sorts and loving gossip.”

“But they would not know for sure,” Aramis brushed it off, “they just speak of speculation and gossip, no one truly believes that nonsense.”

“Until the moment someone does,” d’Artagnan reminded him with a sharp look.

“Sorry,” Aramis sighed, nodding in compliance, “you are right, we cannot afford such gossip.”

“I will speak to Tréville,” Athos declared, “It will be less suspicious if a warning comes from him. Her Majesty will need to keep a close eye upon her ladies and vet out any potential threats.”

“Good idea,” Porthos nodded, as he met Athos’ gaze. The further the suspicious was from the four of them the better.

“Would it be too much to ask that you three stay out of trouble while I am gone for an hour?” Athos raised his eyebrow in a scornful expression.

“Athos, you wound us,” Aramis scoffed, “you think us incompetent?”  
“I think I’m putting Porthos’ room theory to the test,” Athos shot back effortlessly.

“We promise not to disturb the peaceful tranquillity you have become accustomed to,” Aramis retorted sarcastically, causing Athos’ brow to raise a touch higher.

“How about we just don’t sleep with married aristocrats…” d’Artagnan posed facetiously.

“Kettle, pot, d’Artagnan,” Aramis shot back with playful expression.

“Well that’s not fair,” Porthos pouted as he turn to Aramis, “you always have to ruin it don’t ya?”

“Enjoy you’re afternoon, gentlemen,” Athos nodded, taking his leave of his rooms.

As he stepped down the familiar staircase he listening to the sound of a muffling stream of curses and a glass breaking – _five seconds_ … a new record…  
Though Athos made no move to berate the three, instead he continued on his path into the busy Parisian street.

The past week had been a complete nightmare in their eyes and any sound of normality was readily welcomed. He hoped that things would return to their chaotic version of normal soon. But until then, he knew they could rely on one another to ease them through these trying times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :) So this is the end now haha Hope you enjoyed it :)


End file.
